


It's Not A Date

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because I did, But My Brain Doesn't Care, Fancy A Bit Of Bondage?, Fluff, Flustered Mycroft Is Flustered, Friends to Lovers, I'm Not Even Into It, It's Adorable Really, Kinda Got Out Of Hand With The Smut, M/M, Men Loving Men, No One Cares That Sherlock Is Grossed Out, Parentlock, Sherlock is grossed out, Smut, Still Trying To Be Sorry, Trying To Be Sorry, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg never much cared for labels when it came to his sexuality. He liked what he liked and that was it. What he didn't expect, was that Sherlock's attractive older brother would return the sentiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently become re-inspired to go back to another fic but, like our dearest Sherlock, I have many experiments going on at once. This is one of them. Please let me know if you think I should see this one through. Also I love you all with the heat of a thousand white hot burning suns.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Rated Explicit just to be safe. Not sure where my rather smutty mind will take me if I'm able to get it down in words.

The conversation was lively yet hushed as the Detective Inspector approached flat ‘B’, not paying any particular attention to avoiding making noise. Until he heard it. Greg then crept(unnecessarily)the rest of the way and stood at the open door. John was facing it, arms crossed loosely with an amused twinkle in his eyes despite a straight face. Then there was the back of a bespoke suit, Lestrade's favourite of Mycroft’s actually with its charcoal pin stripes and, he knew without viewing the front, there was a matching waistcoat. Greg hoped he wore the crimson tie but one of the yellow ones would do nicely as well. An already perfect posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, grip tightening on the ever-present black umbrella with the hand-carved grip. The thing probably had a sword in it. Or a button that was directly connected to whomever needed to be assassinated for the good of the Commonwealth.

Mycroft always made him feel under dressed, even if he’d been wearing his finest. Today Greg had nothing special on. He'd thrown on the first thing he came across from his meager work wardrobe(meager entire wardrobe, if he was honest), a pair of khaki trousers and a pale blue button up his ex wife had bought him years ago, claiming the colour suited him. It made him feel like some sort of office manager and so he balanced it out by not wearing a tie, nor buttoning the top button. He'd been called in on one of his few days off anyway, so he'd refused to feel badly about it at first. Of course it would be one of the days he randomly ran into Mycroft Thousand-Pound Three-Piece Suit Holmes. He should have known. At least he'd shaved.

 

“Alright, Greg?” John greeted him comfortably.

 

“Heya John. Mr. Holmes. Don’t suppose Himself is about." 

 

"No," answered John, looking pointedly at the reason for Sherlock's speedy departure personified. "He’s fled the flat. Not sure where to, though." Mycroft had finally turned to face him.

 

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector.” Greg smiled at his propriety as well as how, on anyone else, it would have sounded as if Mycroft's response was a bit flustered for whatever reason. 

 

"I should have texted first," Lestrade sighed, drawing out his phone. "But then who's to say he wouldn't have left anyway?" Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. Sherlock was fickle. The only one who came close to understanding how his mind worked was Mycroft, and that was because they were cut from the same cloth, genetically speaking. Between the three men present, however, they all managed to tolerate him enough to keep him out of the worst of it. "Well, see ya." 

 

"If you don't get a hold of him before I see him, I'll let him know."

 

"Thanks, John."

 

Greg was about to slip out quietly as Sherlock's older brother seemed to be in the midst of an important private conversation with John. He was, however, halted by the smooth, posh lilt. “Uh Detective Inspector? A word, if you please?” He stepped back into the sitting room to stand before the inquirer.

 

“Yeah?” Mycroft silently blinked at him for a full ten seconds. “Alright?”

 

“Fine!” he blurted. Greg looked past him at John, the same bemused expression painting the former army doctor's features as when he'd first arrived. John just shrugged noncommittally. “I’m… fine. Thank you.”

 

“Okay good. Then what’s this word you wanted to have with me? I mean,” he smirked at John with a cheeky little wink, “I hope it’s a good one because I do very much enjoy the vast vocabulary of educated men.” He hoped that didn't sound blatantly flirtatious. It seemed much more of an easygoing joke in his head. Why the hell was he tempering his words to sound like he wasn't flirting anyways? Because he wasn't flirting. He absolutely wasn't. Even though it sounded dangerously close to a line he'd used to flirt before. Greg kept himself from sighing by the skin of his teeth.

 

“Amusing,” Mycroft said, aristocratic face looking anything but amused.

 

“I thought it was,” Greg snickered a little, good 'ol John providing quiet chuckling support. “Seriously, though. What do you need?”

 

“I…” he looked back at John who gave him a nod. Lestrade frowned at the odd exchange, curiosity peaked, but managed to refocus his attention on the man speaking before him. He was wearing the red tie. Greg smiled to himself. “Are you free this evening?”

 

“Sorry?"

 

"Do you have any plans this evening?" Mycroft repeated, looking for all the world like he was about to dispose of the entire conversation and depart.

 

"Well," Greg ran a thoughtful hand through his silvered locks, feeling a bit like a nervous teen-ager for some reason despite their wisened colour, "if your brother deigns to help with this case, then it should be solved within a couple of hours. That plus paperwork should leave me free, tonight." Mycroft seemed to... pause, before speaking again.

 

"I assume you've texted him the relevant details?"

 

"Yeah." Mycroft held out a pale, elegant hand, well manicured of course. Greg opened the sent text before handing it over, noting the difference of his rather ruddy thick fingers. Not that they weren't clean, they just didn't have the same effect. Oceanic blue eyes scanned the words almost instantaneously.

 

"It was the older biological sibling who murdered him out of jealousy for his having been adopted into a loving home. Sherlock would have dragged it out only because he's had nothing to interest him for too long. He's most likely at New Scotland Yard begging for cold cases." Greg would never get over their deductive abilities. One look at the matching expression of barely contained awe on John's face told him that the subject's flatmate and best friend agreed wholeheartedly.

 

"Yeah..." Lestrade unintentionally drew the word out with the tail end of his, well, admiration. "Once I found out he was part of a pair of split up siblings I put someone on that front. I figured it was a long shot but why not cover all angles."

 

"Indeed," Mycroft stated mildly, watching the tip of his umbrella manipulate the nap of the old red and grey rug that nearly matched his clothes. "You're good at what you do, Detective Inspector. Don't let my brother make you feel insignificant. Despite his... abrasive manner, he actually chose you to work with for this reason." 

 

“Nice compliment... I think..."

 

"It is, I assure you. He could have manipulated anyone into letting him in."

 

"Well, thanks then. But why do you want to know if I had plans?” John was grinning like a lunatic and Greg had little idea what for, unless it was because he seemed to be making the world's biggest idiot of himself in front of a fascinatingly mysterious person. If he'd ever seen Mycroft with beautiful women other than his chocolate-haired PA(What was her name? Anna? Aretha?)and driving himself in a flashy car, he would be absolutely sure that James Bond was based on the "minor" position holding government official.

  

“I must attend a function in a few hours," Mycroft explained with a cool look. "There will be dinner and an operatic performance. My PA is usually the one who accompanies me but she’s had a... family issue. Her mother isn't doing well and since there is nothing more pressing than usual this weekend, I've given her leave to go and visit.”

 

“That’s nice of you.”

 

“It’s necessary. She may be distracted and it would affect her performance.” Of course. Greg rolled his eyes. Mycroft was always logical if nothing else. He frowned at Lestrade's reaction, which was weird as he hardly ever reacted with more than raised eyebrows and plastic smiles. “Anyway, if you would do me the favour of taking her place I would, as you say, owe you one.”

 

“Um. Okay that’s fine. I'll need to find something decent to wear.” Greg non-consciously glanced down at his attire, at a loss for what he possibly had in his closet that may have been good enough. Perhaps he'd rent something as he couldn't afford to buy anything new right now.

 

“Your sapphire suit with the pewter Spencer and Hart tie and pocket square will do just fine.” It was his one really nice tie and he'd never worn it in Mycroft's presence as far as he remembered. He could remember pretty far. His first meeting with the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes wasn't something easily forgotten, a thinly veiled threat from a stranger over his mobile to get into a black sedan that appeared out of nowhere and taken to some abandoned plant to be-what? Warned? Lectured? 'Told' was probably the best word to describe it, though there were elements of all present. He was  _told_  about Sherlock Holmes, the gangly madman that showed up on his crime scene and managed to both thoroughly solve the case and alienate everyone else on it. Everyone but Lestrade himself. 

   

“Alright. Erm… I’m not even going to ask how you know I have that tie, especially since I haven’t worn it in many years." He sort of figured out it was the beginning of the end with Margaret when he no longer wore it on their date nights. Oh, he made the grandest of efforts, but it no longer seemed a special enough occasion. "And two, you won’t owe me anything," he surprised even himself by saying. "Being taken to a high-class 'do with gourmet food counts as good enough payback for me.” It was the absolute truth yet Mycroft still looked from Greg to John disbelievingly. Lestrade cringed inwardly, thinking perhaps he'd just demonstrated precisely the reason he  _shouldn't_  be let anywhere near a classy party.

   

“You… don’t wish a favour from me in return?”

   

“Not for something like this, no.” He then sighed, attempting humour again. “If you insist, then I’ll just save mine up for something important. I know it’s a difficult concept for you Holmes boys to grasp but, sometimes, people are just trying to be nice.”

 

“Rarely,” Mycroft scoffed.

 

“Maybe." Greg grew serious. "But I see so much rubbish every day on the job. The horrible way people treat each other. I guess I have to counter it somehow, so I make an extra effort to be nice.”

 

“That you do,” Mycroft mused. A short silence ensued, slightly awkward as he fiddled with the fine finished wood of his umbrella handle.

 

“Right then. Better check in at the office and see about wrapping up this case." He grinned up at the taller man, an inch or so above his six foot brother and rushed out of the door, his blood a bit effervescent.

 

“Seven!” Mycroft called after him.

 

“Right! I’ll be ready!”

 

 

 

***

He could almost smell the rage as he stepped out of the lift and walked toward what was little more than a large, glass-walled cubicle that he called an office. Sherlock was sitting at Greg's desk, hands pressed together at the palms, tips of his index and middle fingers resting against his chin in a prayerful pose. His eyes were shut as he continued to pointedly ignore an almost screeching Sally Donovan. Sure the man was infuriating, but she often antagonized him. It was unprofessional and he would try harder to put a stop to it. Right after he found out what the hell Sherlock was doing sat at his desk and not down in archives.

 

Lestrade sent Sally pouting to her desk with an ominous promise to speak with her later. Sherlock remained a statue, inky curls wild, cheekbones as sharp as his wit. However, instead of thanking him for calling off his dog, or whatever unflattering euphemism Sherlock chose to describe her, the Consulting Detective opened those alien-like eyes, took one look at the suit Lestrade had collected from the dry cleaners on the way there, and accusingly stated,

 

“You have a date.” 

 

“Not really, no." He hung his coat and the suit up out of the way and tried to think of what his routine would be when he got home in order to make the preparation go more quickly. “Mycroft has a thing and his PA can’t go with him so he asked me.”

   

“You have a date… with Mycroft?” Sherlock could've probably sounded more disgusted but it would have been hard work.

 

“It’s not a date,” Greg insisted smiling a little inwardly at how much he sounded like John. “It’s a favour. One for which, in return, I get a gourmet meal and a lovely performance probably in a language I don’t speak.” Sherlock followed him around the office like his two year-old Sophie did when he had the kids for their visitation. He was tidying a bit and looked for the paperwork from the case which he finally concluded was on its way. 

 

“Huh. I didn't think the fat bugger had it in him,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

 

“Oh, stop it. Mycroft is far from fat or even chubby so just stop it.” Sherlock then went on a diatribe regarding Mycroft's eating habits and how they’d had to send him to a special facility for obese children. He of course was lying or at the very least exaggerating and Greg ignored him for the most part. “Are you finished?” he asked when the six-foot toddler paused for a breath, which was actually after an impressively long time. Anyway, he was well-versed in the dealings of sibling rivalry. Maggie and Jack were older, closer in age than Jack was with Sophie who, Greg came to figure out, was supposed to be the "fix-it" baby, the one that would repair the relationship. The pregnancy, however, only ended up putting further strain on them, as no one knew until after her birth whether or not she was biologically Greg's child. Good thing she was, though, because he'd fallen in love with her in utero, despite himself.

 

Sally's fit had cost too much time and, once again Greg was glad that he tried his best to be prepared. Having long before banished Sherlock to the catacombs, he made his way down to the locker room. Down there he always stored a full change of clothes, including pants, socks, and shoes, as one never knew what one might be getting into when it came to homicide investigations. There was also a case full of travel toiletries down there. He showered, shaved again just to be sure, and dressed carefully, tying on his better looking shoes, less worn because of where they stayed. The light, spicy musk of his shave cream would have to do as far as cologne was concerned but, all in all he was pleased with the outcome as he stood in front of one of the few full-length mirrors. Colleagues teased him good-naturedly through the entire process, but genuinely wished him luck, if in a crude manner. He'd stopped denying it was a date, but only because no one was listening. He now felt John's predicament keenly. It wasn't the thought of being romantically linked with a man, no matter how beautiful and precisely groomed. It's just that he simply wasn't at the moment. Though John and Sherlock's relationship was confusing to the masses, Greg found it quite basic. It simply and solidly  _was_. 

 

The stand-off was intense and silent, the gossip having already made it upstairs hurriedly hushed as more and more people along his path realized he was coming to make sure of some last minute details before he left. He wasn't even sure how they'd be traveling. Before reaching his office he saw Mycroft standing just inside of it, buttoned tightly into a black wool coat and gripping his umbrella with black gloved hands. Sherlock stood in front of him a safe distance away, not saying a word. He didn't have to, as the man virtually radiated distaste at his older brother with the stiffness in his stance and squinted eyes. Greg took a deep breath, steeling himself to take control of the situation as quickly as possible. 

 

"Good evening, Detective Inspector. I hope you don't mind my early arrival. I realized I hadn't informed you of the transportation situation and thought it was late enough to tell you personally." Mycroft could have been there before Greg went down to wash in the first place looking the way he did. It meant Greg wouldn't have had to wait to see him looking like that.

 

"Hi. Yeah, no it's fine. Just making sure the last minute things are sorted." Mycroft's eyes traveling down and back up his body may as well have been a physical touch for how keenly he felt them. He held his hands slightly away from his body in nervous presentation.  

 

"It suits you," Mycroft declared quietly.

 

"Disgusting," Sherlock sneered.

 

"Yeah thanks," Greg said. "Sherlock go back downstairs or go home."

 

“But Mycroft-”

   

“Now!” he nearly roared, putting every bit of his natural command he could into the word. Sherlock's mouth hardened into a thin line as it did when he was trying not to pout. With one last long glare he swept out of the room.

 

“It’s a date!” he shouted from the lift as the doors were closing. Greg could only laugh as Mycroft looked uncomfortable yet pleasantly surprised at Sherlock’s response to the DI. He seemed to come to as Greg checked his computer then shut it down, hanging his umbrella on the coat rack in order to retrieve Greg's outerwear from the peg beside it. Greg was surprised that Mycroft held it for him, pushing it up his arms and settling it on his shoulders to brush off stray lint. Before he could thank him, Sally appeared at the door.

 

“You two kids have a good time,” she teased. “Be careful and call if you need anything.” Greg narrowed his eyes at her, still angry about her earlier performance, but could hardly contain a small smile. There was something pleasantly anticipatory in the air. For the first time, he felt more compliment to than competition with the man at his right. Sally gave a nervous chuckle and, with a rigid ‘good evening’, Mycroft escorted him to the lift and out the doors into the frigid night air. If it was anyone but Mycroft Holmes, he would have said his companion was blushing. “Sorry if you got embarrassed in there,” Greg apologized sincerely. "They're not used to you upstairs. You're usually only seen in Holding." Bailing Sherlock and/or John out.

 

“I assure you it was fine.” They rode in silence for a few minutes.

 

“I’m probably not going to be as adept at navigating these upper crust crowds as your PA, I’m afraid.”

 

“You are highly adaptive and, dare I say, I will be the envy of everyone in the room with a companion of your caliber.” Greg cut his dark eyes to Mycroft's face, seeing only his profile as he looked straight ahead. The praise made a seed of warmth bloom within his chest.

 

“I’ll try my best to live up to that,” Greg promised.

 

“No need to try, Detective Inspector. As I said you already possess the necessary components to ‘navigate’.”

 

“I… alright. Though just one thing?” Mycroft finally turned to look at him, an eyebrow expectantly raised. “Don’t you think it would be better for you to call me Greg? At least for tonight, even though we've actually been past the formalities for quite some time now.”

 

“I believe that is acceptable, Gregory.”

 

“Yeah… well,” Lestrade smirked. “My Mum is usually the only person who calls me that. Although on the other side of the coin I rather like the concept of ‘Myc’ because the spelling intrigues me.” Greg put a hand on Mycroft's knee absently and squeezed briefly before taking it back to lay in his lap. Mycroft groaned as expected, rolled his eyes, also expected, but smiled very slightly, jerking his face toward his window when Greg noticed it. 

 

Greg made sure to say nothing, instead setting himself to wondering at his affectionate gesture. He couldn't help it, really. Yes he was British but he'd always been more touchy-feely when he deemed it welcome, clapping shoulders, patting backs, shaking hands. Sherlock's presence always shouted DON'T TOUCH and so he didn't. Except for that one time he came back from the dead. That warranted more than just a handshake and Sherlock just had to endure the hearty embrace. Mycroft had seemed the same to him. The same, that was, until today when he fumblingly asked him to accompany him on a... what? If it had been a woman there would have been no hesitation in calling it a date, romantic intentions or no. Sometimes he and Maggie went on Daddy/Daughter "dates".

 

He was still thinking about it when they arrived and Mycroft waited for him to come around the car so they could walk side by side toward the entrance of a swanky hotel swarming with important, attractive people. He took Greg's coat and turned it in along with his own to the coat check before leading the way toward one of the halls set up for mingling. The man looked fantastic in an exquisitely tailored suit... that matched the slight charcoal sheen of Greg's tie. Mycroft's tie was alternately the blue of Greg's suit. To say the DI was floored was an understatement and he fought to remember to close his mouth whenever he looked at Mycroft. There were rose boutonnieres, the royal family's combination of red and white, tied with blue and silver ribbon to represent whatever event this was. Mycroft had actually coordinated their clothes with the colours of the event.

 

"Your mouth, Gregory." It was gentle, the chastisement. There was nearly no heat behind it and that which was present didn't seem the least bit angry. Greg shut it with a snap then grinned as Mycroft pinned a rose on his lapel after already having done his own. It wasn't actually a pin, but an ingenious little magnetic contraption. A brief glance around the room had Greg supposing that any random piece of clothing in the room cost more than his entire ensemble put together, including pants and socks. "A drink?" Mycroft offered, seemingly forcing his hands down to his sides. 

 

"Don't mind if I do."

 

As they headed straight for the bar, his escort ordering a generous glass of good scotch for each of them, Greg wondered again at the comfort with which physical interactions occurred between them. They had an undertone of excitement, just not in a bad way. They took half of the drink in one go after a toast and silently agreed to sip the rest as he collected visual data from the other guests in order to deduce them to Greg in a low voice that somehow had the Detective Inspector's knees almost buckling with its decadence, and his belly shaking with laughter. Good thing the bar was behind him, else he would have crumpled embarrassingly to the polished wood floor.

 

Properly fortified, Mycroft procured them each a flute of champagne from a passing server and asked, “Are you prepared to mingle?” Mycroft's tone seemed suggest that he meant 'be shown off' rather than the word he used, though Greg couldn't fathom how he came to that conclusion.

 

“I’ll try not to embarrass you,” he shrugged a little, only half joking if he was honest. These were obviously extremely posh people. He'd even seen a few of them on the telly. He couldn't come up with an answer as to why he'd decided to include run-of-the-mill Greg in this world. Greg was snapped out of his thoughts by a rather sharp tone.

 

“You will discontinue this self-character assassination immediately.” Greg raised his eyebrows.

 

“Will I?”

 

 “Yes. You will.” Mycroft's eyes bore into his, dual churning oceans within small globes surrounded by snowy white. But there was little authority, none of the calm life threat Greg had seen him exude half a dozen times. Instead, he found in those fathomless depths, a more pleading truth than he'd ever expected. If he’d had more to drink and less hang ups, he may have even kissed him. Instead Greg gave him a small smile and dropped the register of his voice a bit.

   

“Alright,” he said slowly. “Myc.” Mycroft snapped up from the slight lean toward him, face forward, nose in the air as he stepped forward onto the floor. He relaxed as soon as he made eye contact with the first couple to whom he was to introduce Greg, and he had to tell him who they were as well as how useful to his own work... whatever that was.

 

They spent the next thirty minutes moving smoothly about the crowd, Mycroft introducing him to people he knew from the papers, television, and various other media outlets. Greg had been complimented, air-kissed, offered hands to kiss following Mycroft's lead, and exchanged bows with at least fifteen different people before the dinner was announced.

 

The dining hall was was of course poshly decorated in the colours of the event, deep blue and silver. Mycroft brought him right to the table at which their place cards were set and curiously held his chair. Again, Greg thought nothing of it until after the fact. They were sat with several high-profile people including someone Greg was certain was nearly as close to the Queen as Mycroft. There were speeches and toasts and food fit for the aforementioned monarch. Greg kept his taste buds’ extreme reaction to a murmur in Mycroft’s ear, a thousand questions about what it was they were eating and if he could write it down for him later. He promised to remember for him and Greg knew he would.

 

Frighteningly, there was dancing back in the cocktail room, now outfitted with a live band along with the bar. It wasn't the freeing movements of enjoying a good band, or the gyrations of a disco, but proper ballroom dancing. He spun the wives and companions of several extremely important people around the floor. They were obviously way better dancers than he, but what he lacked in skill, he made up for with charm. Mycroft suddenly cut in smoothly, under the guise of someone who was standing on the outskirts of the room wanting to ask him a question about football. He did it with not much more than a light touch and a warm smile of apology that somehow made a slight fluttering appear in the pit of Greg's stomach. It could have been the rich food, expensive booze, or any number of things. He'd have to figure it out later, however because he had to explain what strategies Manchester needed to employ in order to get out of their slump  _to the team's owner_.

 

A slight bustling of the small crowd ensued as they were seated again, the performers taking the stage to deliver flawless recitals, as predicted, in four different languages. In his ear, Mycroft whispered the translations, nearly bringing the Detective inspector to embarrassing tears with their prose and steadfast heart-wrenching melodies; sparking other things best left to other, better people.

 

After several more farewells than Mycroft said he was expecting, they rode in the warmth of his standard black sedan back to Greg's flat. He was reluctant to go back to its misery, its comparative squalor compared to the evening he'd just had.

 

“You looked like you had a good time,” Greg mentioned. “I don’t think I've ever seen you smile so much. But then, we  _did_  drink, a  _lot_.”

 

“I assure you no more than usual. The amusement was due solely to the company.” It was Greg's turn to raise an eyebrow at Mycroft. “Alright perhaps a bit of alcoholic influence but it’s negligible. You were, as they say, a hit.”

 

“What? I was a bit of an idiot and the Canadian Prime Minister spilled his lager on my shoe…”

 

“What did I say about speaking of yourself in that manner?” he scolded, fiddling with his umbrella. He seemed comically glad to see it again as he’d had to leave it in the vehicle. “I don’t hear it from anyone but you.”

 

“Not even Sherlock?” Greg gently nudged him with his shoulder, making him smile again. It was his goal, as a smiling Mycroft Holmes meant all was right with the world for that moment. Also Greg had drunk too much and he always got soppy when that happened. If he was in good company, that is. Otherwise, he always won the fight.

 

“Sherlock doesn't count," Mycroft replied. "Unless you’re talking of the fact that the positive things far outweigh the negative, which is usually only spoken out of childish frustration anyway.” Greg just shrugged in disbelief and fingered the hem of his coat, only realizing it was actually Mycroft's he was fidgeting with. The wool was as soft as cotton “I was… encouraged to bring you on visits to their homes and several other high-profile functions.”

 

“Really?” Greg was a bit skeptical. He really hadn’t done much more than behave a bit more posh than at a regular party. The level of worry about his behaviour went down significantly when the alcohol took hold. Still, he didn't want to misrepresent Mycroft. Every time he thought he had, everyone would laugh and say he was delightful.

 

Only one person commented aloud regarding Mycroft escorting a gentleman, something that was apparently odd for a high-ranking White British government official despite there having been a gay Prime Minister or two. Mycroft asked if he cared to have him removed. Greg reigned in his street temper and thanked the foreign official for his up-front honesty as, in most cases, it would just be behind the back whispers. He then went on a minute long gentle tirade about how despite how loudly he railed against it, he seemed to be enjoying looking at his broad chest all night in an overly-obvious fashion as well as having touched his backside without thinking Greg knew who it was, despite the fact that he was actually a pretty good detective. He concluded by stating that he was extremely proud to accompany Mycroft Holmes anywhere, no matter the capacity which really wasn't any of his business anyway. The official left of his own accord. There was even a smattering of light applause.

 

“You may have started an international incident,” Mycroft sighed of the subject in the car. “Nothing that can’t be quelled with a few dozen troops.” Greg's horrified expression must have been amusing because he actually, genuinely,  _laughed_. He hadn't even done more than a reserved little chuckle even as others were in hysterics at Greg's slightly tipsy antics. “His and her divorce lawyers will probably be sending you flowers. He’s a terrible philanderer and only has a significant position because of who her father is. Everyone seems afraid of him for some reason.” His look grew more significant. “Everyone but you.”

 

“I was nearly pissing myself the whole time,” Greg admitted. “I was just angrier than I was scared. It’s just the degree to which I’m scared compared to the situation.” Mycroft frowned at his confession.

   

“Why-”

   

“Don’t do that. You know me well." 

 

“Yes… I suppose you're right.” He cleared his throat uneasily. Well it would have been considered uneasy, had it been a less dangerous man. “I hope you feel at least a bit more secure in my presence. If you were doing something unwise, I would have stepped in, but I do trust your judgement.”

 

"I really wanted to punch him. But I was trying my best to be polite."

 

"In that case, I'm polite to him constantly." Did he...? Mycroft Holmes had just made a joke about wanting to punch someone. What an intriguing man. Greg's laugh only had to be forced initially because it was blocked by his surprise.

 

“Yeah I totally feel secure with you!” He wasn't lying with his exuberance, just trying to push his sincerity. “I mean you’re pretty dangerous, but chivalrous and funny..." He nudged him a bit with his elbow. "Besides, you have a positive inclination toward those who are helping your brother, so the way I see it, I'm alright for now.” Greg left the ‘for always’ out of the conversation as that just couldn't be predicted. “I just hope I didn't bore you with my ‘goldfish’ conversation.” Greg grinned as Mycroft shut his eyes in exasperation.

   

"Told you about that, did he?"

 

"Oh, ages ago."

 

"I only meant-" Was he about to explain himself? Because that would have been awful if someone like him was made to explain himself to insignificant Greg Lestrade on a point he already understood. Mycroft and his brother were geniuses, more intelligent than everyone they'd come in contact with in the world so far, and that was a lot of people. Sherlock being the more outwardly emotional and angry of the the two would of course find a friend eventually. Passionate, sensitive(as much as he tried to hide that fact)people always did, despite his coping mechanism of being a complete arse. No one with a mind like the youngest Holmes brother went into a people-friendly line of work as a hobby without actually wanting to help, despite his abhorrent bedside manner. That's what John was for, however. They balanced each other out beautifully.

 

"It's fine," Greg stated, cutting his near sputtering off. It was a bit frightening to see the stoicism of the man beside him rattled. "I get it. You and Sherlock have so much to offer the world and most don't appreciate it. Some aren't even aware of how much you help. I only scratch the surface, even, and I see what you do and the impact of it all the time. You blokes are amazing and I can only do whatever I can to help." Greg had given his little speech with minimal eye contact, afraid of the sentiment of it all the Holmeses seemed to despise. But he could hardly help it, could he? A combination of the alcohol and the opportunity made it the perfect time to say what he felt under the surface admiration and kidding around. He was surprised to find a slim yet manly and well-manicured hand on his shoulder. Greg finally steadied his eyes on his. 

 

"You have little idea how much you really do, Gregory. For all of us." Greg smiled to show him he thanked him for the compliment. Mycroft smiled warmly in return, patted his shoulder once, then removed his hand almost shyly.

 

 

They pulled up outside Greg's building but sat quietly side by side for a long moment.

 

"I'd invite you up but the place is a wreck." 

 

"Understood. Another time, perhaps."

 

"Yeah, definitely." Greg sniffed but still neither one of them moved.

 

"May I... walk you to your door?"  Truthfully, Greg had begun feeling more inadequate by the moment, until Mycroft's hesitance demanded his attention. 

 

"Yeah. That'd be alright, I think."

 

They went quietly to the lift, rode it up without a word and walked to number sixteen. Mycroft stood to the side, but close, waiting for Greg to get his keys out and search for the correct one.

 

"This evening has turned out to be better than I had expected," Mycroft stated truthfully. This made Greg pause with the right key in hand.

 

"Really?"

 

"Yes. It was quite pleasant. Usually these functions are tedious beyond words." There was one of many things Sherlock got from him. "I'll have an itinerary of events to which we've been invited as a result of this function sent to you by tomorrow evening. That is... if you would like to take some of them up on their offers."

 

"Oh," Greg fooled with the keys, jumbling up the top lock one with the rest again. "Some of them sound really great. But you're way too busy for all of that."

 

"Let me know which ones you fancy most anyway," he said, briskly brushing a bit of invisible dirt off of his own sleeve. "I'm sure I'll be able to arrange my schedule around at least three."

 

"That's really good of you, Mycroft." They stood there a moment longer, not wanting it to end, yet beginning to feel awkward. 

 

"You'd better get inside," Mycroft advised.

 

"Good idea. But hey," he tossed his keys into his left hand so he could hold out his right, "Thanks a lot for tonight. It was great. You... you look after yourself, yeah?" Mycroft took it warmly, the two of them a study in contrast, but fitting together in a complimentary fashion, like yin and yang. A taut string stretched between them, elastic and short and thrumming with energy. Greg didn't even notice the distance closing between them until Mycroft abruptly took his hand away to clasp over the other one holding his umbrella. The string was still there, still tight, just stilled. "Sorry," Greg somehow felt he had to say, immediately turning to unlock the door at Mycroft's mask-like expression. It was the same face his brother wore while he was assessing a situation, flicking pale eyes up and down Greg's frame, gathering all data available and cross-referencing it with his biological computer.

 

"Don't be," he said softly enough to give him pause just as he'd gotten the key turned. He continued to stare at it, fit in the lock it belonged to, unable to help a tiny smile at the frankly romantically philosophical comparison that formed in his mind. Up there in his head, however, the lock was heart-shaped. "Good evening, Gregory."

   

"Bye, Myc."

   

He rushed in and shut the door lightly, pushing himself back against it in order to catch his breath, slow his heart rate. He'd just had something much closer to a normal interaction with Mycroft Holmes. It had a romantic edge to it and he seemed fine with it. The whole thing seemed a bit ludicrous, he thought as he got ready for bed, a quick shower, and a mouth scrub. It's not that he needed the affirmation of a relationship. He had learned to live without it pretty well. Logically, he only required someone knowledgeable of the rather rare situation of his single status to offer insight without prompt. Mycroft had done that. It was even stranger, sort of, that it had come from him as opposed to someone more... normal. Like John, who was extremely good at making people feel important when they needed it. However, it wasn't because they were actually important most of the time. It was an extension of his bedside manner, which was excellent even in the face of people who could tell you were lying by a twitch of your eye from fifty paces. Greg realized his friend was not so easily read by normal people. The man tried to count himself as normal but really he was just as extraordinary as everyone else in their little group. He just happened to be better at emulating the behaviour and, at times, wanted a few "normal" things.

 

Mycroft didn't care one bit about actually being normal. He just studied what it was to be and fit in, almost like an experiment. Sherlock was of course the rebellious baby of the family, who wore his heart on his sleeve until it got too damaged. Then he buried it, to be seen only by those who were willing to dig deep enough and endure all of the traps and misleading corridors to reach it. His brother's was basically an impenetrable fortress, deciding at any given time whether or not to let you inside. Sherlock, just like in real life, was the only person able to slip past his defenses. Probably because he spent most of his early life living there.

 

Greg lay in bed awake far longer than he should have. But he just couldn't get his brain to slow enough to allow sleep to take over. It had really been that good a night. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg flipped to an upright position as he tried to catch his breath, the expected dreams leaving him coldly sweating in a hot bed. The last one had started out a nightmare, learning of Sherlock's suicide, dealing with a grieving John Watson, finally being able to break down in his flat when he was through being strong for everyone else for seven days in a row. Only he hadn't drunk himself to sleep on the sofa during his thousandth viewing of a Doctor Who special. He was spoiled to sleep by an extremely comforting Mycroft Holmes. It's kind of how he knew it was a dream. Mycroft had been extremely genial but Greg had little idea how he would be, romantically speaking... if he even did that sort of thing.

 

It came in snatches of sense stimulation as all dreams did, heat and cool and salty taste, warm firelight, and the pulling, the tugging of something he struggled pleasantly against until the plug was pulled and a geyser of sensation overwhelmed everything until he awoke. He moved the blankets aside, noticing with great surprise, the evidence of his ultimate enjoyment drying between his pajama bottoms and the skin of his belly. He hadn't had a wet dream since he was a teen with an overactive libido.

 

He shook his head and climbed out of bed, pulling on a ratty grey dressing gown to ward off the chill a bit whilst he turned on the heating and started his day. 

 

He was almost not surprised to find a black mop-topped Consulting Detective sitting in his office, swiveling in one of the guest chairs with a blank look on his face, holding a dark silver box tied with a deep blue ribbon. He was proud of himself for only pausing as he hung up his coat and slid behind his desk. Donovan was nowhere in sight, perhaps afraid to confront him after what he warned her about the night before.

 

“Shall I start calling you brother-in-law now or wait until after the wedding?” he taunted. It didn't, however, have its usual razor sharp edge. He was assessing Greg. Also Greg had learned not to ask what Sherlock had in various containers unless he really wanted to know. He usually didn't.

   

“Calm yourself, Sherlock. I told you it wasn't a date, it was a favour.”

   

“Do 'not-dates' usually end with a kiss and a gift in the morning?” Greg turned to him, raking his eyes over his impeccably dressed form. Today it was the blood red shirt and the velveteen suit. The morning was quite cold.

 

“We didn't kiss," not for lack of wanting to, he didn't say. "Is that for me?” he asked, the odd sensation of his heart in his throat making him frown. Sherlock lifted a pewter coloured card and read it in a perfect imitation of his older brother’s voice... if it was besotted.

 

"Gregory, I must thank you once more for a _lovely_ evening -Mycroft Holmes.”

   

“You didn't open it, did you?”

 

“Of course not,” he replied as if offended Greg suggested he would deign to peek at something so disgusting as some token of his brother’s affection. “So d'you want to know what it is?” At least he asked this time, proving he was just as curious to see if he was correct as usual.

 

“Go ahead,” Greg indulged him. He was in a great mood for some reason and decided to start on the sky-high pile of paperwork on his desk.

 

“There are no logos or otherwise distinguishing marks, however the colours match not only what you wore last night but also reflect your favourite colour and scent, Calvin Klein’s Obsession For Men. How very pedestrian, but you actually enjoy his company so no accounting for taste there, I suppose. I mean you went out with Mycroft. Willingly.” Greg snatched the box out of his hands and was the subject of the most forlorn look. Maggie couldn't have done better.

 

“I’m not going to open it before you finish,” Greg assured him. “Go on. Just hurry up, okay?” Sherlock sighed, straightening himself as if he didn't just look like a kicked puppy.

   

“Now! With anyone else one would think it a half a dozen roses but this is you. You enjoy playing on inside jokes and thoughtful distinctions, hence the anatomically correct heart charts and chocolates you gave John and me for Valentine’s day."

 

"Just happened to see them in a shop and immediately thought of John and his MD status. I knew you wouldn't care but I couldn't just get him something and not you, now could I?" That earned him yet another assessing glare.  

 

"Now, knowing how his diet’s progressing-”

   

“Watch it,” Greg warned.

   

“What? Don’t want me making fun of your fat boyfriend.”

   

“Sherlock he’s  _not_  fat-”

 

“But you didn't deny the boyfriend part.”

   

“If you're going by what all happened last night, you are all my boyfriends and Molly and Mrs. Hudson are my girlfriends.”

 

“Semantics.”

   

“What’s in the damn box, Sherlock?”

   

“Ooh. Tetchy.” Greg went to open it anyway. “Chocolates! They're chocolates,” he cried even more quickly than usual, not to be robbed of his chance. Of course, Sherlock was correct.

 

"We'd been talking about how flowers or cologne were lovely and all but sometimes you'd rather just have something edible. Shut up, Sherlock." He'd opened his mouth but snapped it closed again. "We were saying these were both our favourites but they were a bit pricey for me and..." He ignored Sherlock's disgusted look. "I'll save them to share them with him later. He in his "office" for lunch today?"

   

"How would I know?"

 

"You always know." Sherlock conceded the point with a shallow shrug.

 

"He's currently in a meeting with an emissary from France. It should be over by lunch time even if it goes over. If you'll just drop something with him for me."

 

"Um... yeah okay. Am I not to look inside it on pain of death."

 

"Basically," he said casually, and flounced out of the office after having left a file on the desk that had appeared seemingly from nowhere. Greg sighed with a father's fondness and attacked his paperwork properly. Fortunately the morning had been quiet for him and the afternoon seemed to look like more of the same.

 

He knotted a tie about his neck and ran his fingers through his hair, which he just noticed had gotten rather shaggy. It couldn't be helped and so he pulled on his coat and made sure he had the file he'd been given as well as the chocolates and made his way out. He blinked at the black sedan a moment, the driver standing at parade rest in a dark, plain suit that definitely cost more than his own. Greg at least pretended he didn't know to whom the vehicle belonged.

  

"You can't park there mate," he offered.   

 

"Mister Holmes requests your company for lunch." Greg's eyes shifted about his environment, lighting briefly on several street cameras suspiciously turning away from the front of New Scotland Yard. 

 

"Erm... Alright." 

 

"I'm authorized to relieve you of that file," he said, holding out a snowy gloved hand. Greg had little doubt of that truth, yet he still refused. It was something important given into his care and he wasn't going to hand it over based on 'Most likely'. A text came in on his phone. It was from Mycroft. He grimly passed the driver the file and got into the vehicle.

The ride was short and quiet, despite the rather high volume of traffic. Classic rock played low in the background. Greg frowned at the speakers never remembering actually telling Mycroft it was what he liked best. He took for granted that the government official had arranged for that station to be playing.

 

It was an expensive place, going by the etched glass and tuxedoed waitstaff. The host knew him on sight, politely confirming his name verbally then escorting him to a rather private table in a dim corner from which Mycroft rose in a stately manner. His suit today had subtle elements of green and grey with a thin red tartan pattern. A section of hair had escaped its impeccably groomed prison, curling mercilessly on an ever widening pale forehead spangled with freckles. Greg couldn't help a fond grin when his hand was grasped warmly. Not shaken, just... taken. It was almost as if he was being hugged. A long moment passed in front of the discreetly blushing host holding Greg's chair before Greg sat and Mycroft followed suit. A Bloody Mary was set immediately before him and Greg looked over to see that Mycroft's was partially consumed.

   

"Had more to drink than you thought?" Greg smirked.

 

"No," he said simply. "I knew the precise amount I'd consumed." He took another slow sip after a silent toast and Greg decided to let it go for the moment. 

   

"Sorry I took so long," he found himself saying.

 

"It's fine. I was informed of how awful the traffic was and you cannot control that."

   

"I bet you could," Greg winked. The return smile made his chest a bit fuzzy. 

   

"That tie suits you," he said evasively but with a full amount of truth.

   

"Thanks. I never knew your hair was curly too." Mycroft blinked at him for three whole seconds before he began trying to smooth it back into place whilst muttering apologies and complaints about it. Greg reached out and put his hand on Mycroft's fumbling one without his brain actually knowing he was about to do that. "It's fine," he said softly. "It suits you." If he didn't know any better, he would have thought Mycroft was blushing. But that was a thing of which he didn't think the man was capable. It would have been the most attractive thing he'd ever seen but it'd never happen. "Oh!" He changed the subject. "Thank you for the chocolates. I was actually on my way to come share them with you at your office," Mycroft arched a surprised eyebrow at the box shown to him before being put beneath Greg's chair.

   

"Is that so?"

   

"Yeah I thought it'd be nice, if you had a few minutes."

   

"That... would have been enjoyable I think." He seemed somewhat staggered.

   

"I thought so. But then, I'm not the genius."

   

"Well I'm yours... For the rest of the day I mean!" Greg frowned a bit at his little outburst. Then he understood.

 

"Oh, I'm sorry about last night. You know... the..."  _almost kissing you thing_. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted me to back off."

 

"I already told you it was... fine."

   

"Ringing endorsement there," he teased with another sip of his own drink. He wasn't big on Bloody Mary's in general but this was savory and refreshingly perfect.

 

"If I'd wanted you to 'back off', I wouldn't have invited you to lunch, now would I have done?" His eyelids were a little heavy as he looked at Greg, his face a blank slate so he had a bit of trouble figuring out the expression. "It was... quite pleasant."

   

"For me as well," Greg assured him. Mycroft nearly hit the ceiling when his table mate's ankle came in contact with his under the table, but didn't move away. He in fact leaned his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin, looking at Greg in earnest. It made him blush to discover the heat in those cerulean eyes, covered by his lids earlier. A waiter returned and Greg realized he hadn't even glanced at the menu yet. He did so now, panicking just a bit at the fact that he had to make a random decision and the items had no prices.

 

"We will start with the escargot stuffed Portobello, then my companion will have a six ounce sirloin medium rare but closer to rare. Make sure it's an end piece with a sufficient strip of fat. He'll have the steamed spinach and  _Les Pomme De Terres Au Gratin_   _a la carte_. I shall have the  _Coque Au Vin_  with the same. I'll get back to you regarding dessert." All without taking his eyes off of Greg's. He knew Mycroft knew facts about him, but he didn't think the notoriously superior man ever paid attention to the inane opening and closing of the mouths of goldfish when it didn't pertain to his direct interests. It hit Greg in the belly. He was one of Mycroft Holmes's direct interests.

   

"Amazing," he said before he could stop himself. Mycroft beamed at him.

 

The meal went by quickly, everything perfectly done. The two men agreed to forego dessert in favour of the chocolates. They bought fancy coffees at a chain establishment then strolled through a park until coming upon a sun-warmed bench on which to sit and enjoy it all. The closest star heated the day exponentially, despite the time of year, making it a bit too warm for gloves or to close their coats.

 

"Ambitious," Greg said, pointing out an ice cream vendor across the way.

 

"Mm," Mycroft agreed, then said, "I'm breaking many rules today, I hope you know."

   

"Well people like a bit of a bad boy." Greg turned his head away, blinking in lieu of shaking his head over how silly that sounded.

   

"My diet is ruined," Mycroft sighed. Greg sat up from slouching comfortably, their shoulders pressed together, in order to turn as far toward him as possible as he primly nibbled his own chocolate.

 

"You really don't need to be on a weight loss diet, Mycroft. You're almost as thin as Sherlock. You're actually very svelt." He scooted back and extended his legs one at a time, examining his shoes as he crossed one over the other. "I like it."

   

"Only because I work at it constantly," he countered.

   

"I'm pretty sure if you didn't you'd actually be skinnier than Sherlock, come to think of it."

 

"Would you...?" He stopped then made another attempt. "Would you be averse to a holiday? With me, I mean. Purely a friendly gesture, I assure you. A group of your... friends could accompany us if it would make you more comfortable." Greg didn't know what he expected. The way he was behaving was subtly panicked, meaning it was just the surface of the deeper emotion, if Sherlock was anything to go by. 

 

"Where would we go? One of those dignitaries' houses?" He guessed Mycroft didn't expect the positive in the answer as he blinked silently again for long moments before answering.

   

"The ones from Morocco have a beach front home with perfect weather this time of year, however I can't possibly do the beach right now." Greg of course understood.

 

"I thought we already discussed this."

 

"I... I burn quickly." Now  _that_  was lame, Greg didn't care what the source was.

 

"That's what sun cream is for." Nothing. "Well  _you_  invited  _me_  so it really is no skin off my nose if you change your mind-"

  

"I haven't changed... Alright." Mycroft glanced around the park, making sure to sweep his eyes over Mycroft several times. How did no one ever see the vulnerability in this man? Besides those that would exploit it, anyhow. Greg supposed Mycroft had to put up a three foot thick concrete barrier, the kind of work he did(whatever that was). He knew he wasn't the caliber of observant the Holmes boys were, but in the face of what he was experiencing now, he was unsure as to how Mycroft hid this blatant uncertainty. 

 

"Yeah?" He couldn't contain his smile and it seemed Mycroft was in the same position as they shook on it.

 

"Yes. I'll have my schedule for next week cleared."

 

"Next week? As in Monday?"

 

"No time like the present." He reached into the watch pocket of his waistcoat and drew out its contents, checking the time before standing. Greg followed smoothly, finishing up his coffee as they walked back to the car. "Should give you time to select our other traveling companions." He flicked his cup into the bin with the satisfaction of getting it in the first try.

 

"I don't need other traveling companions, Myc," Greg informed him, climbing into the vehicle first. Mycroft slid in after. "Unless you plan on doing me harm."

   

"Hear me." The quiet command made Greg lift his head to meet his jeweled blue gaze. "I would never harm you nor let you come to harm if I can help it." The air began pulsing in time with Greg's every heartbeat. Mycroft hardly had time to make a questioning noise at the collision of their lips. There was nothing to ponder with this kiss as he moved his mouth over Mycroft's, pulling at his thin yet shapely lips until they parted to allow the tip of his tongue access. Greg heard himself whimper slightly but wasn't sure if Mycroft did too. He finally ended it, both men breathing heavily, stealing smaller kisses here and there because they could hardly bear to stop. "Perhaps you should stay at mine the night before," he suggested, holding Greg's face, laying a kiss on his nose and another equally sweet one beside it on his right cheek. "Please don't feel obligated. It would just be easier to get to the airport from there." More kisses along his jaw. "Nothing is required of you. You may have your own rooms if you like."

 

"I..." Greg swallowed hard. "I sleep better next to someone but-"

 

"Don't worry. As I said, you have my word that I expect nothing." 

 

"Well, that won't do at all," Greg breathed heavily, forcing himself to slow it enough to take in everything that was happening. "I don't think of myself as a tease." Another press of lips, swipe of tongues. Greg's skin prickled with desire as his trousers grew a bit snug.

 

"Alright then," Mycroft stated, obviously still holding back, which, Greg supposed, was sweet as there was no denying the raw  _thirst_  present between them. "My home is halfway between The Yard and the airport and a few kilometers closer than yours to both..." Mycroft leaned back just enough to smile coyly. Greg hadn't a chance.

 

"I... Y-yeah? Great! I'll... I'll just get some things together when I get home. Except..." Greg winced as memory overrode his arousal. As predicted, Mycroft took it completely wrong. Instead of the falling face of regular people, Mycroft erected a wall, masking his disappointment almost immediately. Not quick enough, however, for Greg not to have glimpsed it as Mycroft retreated both physically and emotionally.

 

"It's alright, Gregory. I realize this is going a bit too quickly-"

 

"Shut-up a second, will you?" Mycroft's lovely lips snapped together in a manner that made Greg have to turn his head to hide the satisfied little smirk. When he turned back, however, he was all business. "We've known each other for ages. I may not know all the little details you pick up about me from just looking at me but I do know more than you think."

 

"Is that so?"

 

"Yes, that  _is_  so. For instance, you try so hard to show yourself as different from Sherlock, even though he's probably the only person in the world that actually gets you completely." The mask remained firmly in place. Mycroft seemed to have quickly built up an immunity to him. Greg wasn't surprised but, then again, the man was still listening.

 

"What does that have to do with anything?" he asked with a stoic indifference.

 

"Everything. About who you are as a person, anyway."

 

"And... Who am I?"

 

"Lonely." The word seemed to punch a hole through Mycroft's wall, causing him to turn his attention out the window. But the gaping was just as quickly repaired. Greg decided to press on, because no matter what happened between them, they would be forever linked by acting in the best interests of Sherlock Holmes. "You were probably praised for your superior brain power. Then Sherlock came along and you didn't get as much attention as you wanted unless you were taking care of him. Then you... well I don't know how else to put it other than... you fell in love. Bit of an age difference between you two and so, whenever you first experienced the cruelty of the school yard when it came to braniacs, you figured out a way to separate yourself so it wouldn't hurt you. And you were determined to teach Sherlock the same methods."

 

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice didn't exactly break, but he had to make another attempt. "Sherlock was so much more sensitive," Mycroft said softly, still not looking at Greg but at least closer, focusing on his brolly-shaped security blanket. "I'd had time to adjust... to know how to fit in. But, well, the way he is now is just a slightly more mature version than the way he was then. He was all barely contained passion and fire. I've always had to... balance him. It's where I got my new nickname from, I suppose."

 

"Nickname?"

  

"The Iceman, is what Moriarty called me." Greg nodded and figured he'd do what he'd do for anyone he was with. He put his arm about Mycroft's shoulders, kissed his freckled temple gently. 

 

"You don't have to be that way with me, alright? Like I said, I know you, the most important parts, anyways. Everything else is just... details. And those we can deal with when they come up, yeah?" Mycroft, whose posture had become rigid when Greg touched him...  _relaxed_. For the first time in a long while. He nodded and, two light kisses later, he was gasping into Greg's mouth, seeming to be barely restraining himself from climbing into his lap. Greg was, as he sometimes regretted, the voice of reason. One of those times was definitely now, when the great Mycroft Bloody Holmes was quite obviously aching as much as he was. "I need to get back to work," Greg said, his breaths becoming more exasperation than desire. Yet, he persisted valiantly. He knew any sort of future with Mycroft meant work would almost always come first. The Uniform, visible or no, was first and foremost for those who chose to don it. "Don't need to be giving your driver more office gossip fodder." Mycroft just kept  _kissing_. Mycroft Holmes' tongue drawing his earlobe into that clever mouth was about the most distracting thing he'd ever experienced until this point. 

 

"The divider renders this compartment completely soundproof," Mycroft mentioned, not helping in the least. "It's extremely useful for the kinds of conversations that sometimes take place here."

 

"Oh," said Greg, unable to distinguish the word between an answer and a sound of pleasure. How, in the name of all that was holy, did Mycroft  _do_  that? He was nearly a messy puddle of lust on the floor of the car and Mycroft hadn't even put his mouth any lower than the junction of his neck and shoulder, hadn't moved those skillful hands any more than lighting on his face or waist. It was nearly infuriating. All of the over thinking went out the proverbial window when Mycroft jabbed a button in some control panel in the door handle that turned the glass black. 

 

He wanted to muss Mycroft completely, totally destroy his well constructed exterior, turn of his brain. He was on the edge of indulging but his mind wasn't altogether free and he forcibly pulled back, putting his hands on his knees and taking great, heaving breaths as if he'd just done a 5K run at full tilt. He was glad Mycroft understood this time that it wasn't rejection, further proved by him going back to the original protest.

 

"What was the issue?" Mycroft asked, eyes closed, chest heaving. Lestrade attempted to look over at him. It proved a bad idea when he had to literally dig his fingernails into his thighs to stop himself from reaching for the man once more. Also, to remember what it was that had been the minor hurdle.

 

"Ah... Oh! Manchester's playing on Sunday. The ex always let's me have the kids when they're playing. Maggie genuinely likes it I think, and Sophie responds to the excitement and all, but Jack... He's not really into it." Talking about the children helped quell the beast and soon Greg was breathing normally and able to casually lay a hand on Mycroft's thigh. He received an expectant look so he went on. "All of them are clever, and I'm not just saying that because I'm biased. Maggie's near the top of her class and we're in talks to have Jack skip a form or maybe even two. But I have this rule. Whenever I have the kids, we're to do as much as possible as a family. So I allow Jack to read or whatever else he wants whilst we watch the match." Mycroft finally looked at him, the wide circles of his pupils still a bit bewildering but otherwise nodding with a frankly annoying amount of composure. "So I'll need to be home Sunday, Saturday night if I'm to have the snacks they like ready."

 

"You... prepare them yourself?"

 

"Yeah. I like to make it sort of special, you know? They often spend the night but-"

 

"You will watch at mine," Mycroft declared.

 

"I'm not going to do that. Kids are smelly and disruptive and... and  _sticky_. Even my little angels."

 

"If we're to be in a successful romantic relationship, Gregory, I will need to at least make the effort to get along with your children." Greg nodded. He was right of course but he was unsure how far advanced the little ones were when it came to sexuality, despite their open-minded discussions with them. He took a deep breath.

  

"Thanks a lot for lunch. It was perfection." Mycroft's smile caused his heart to flutter for a moment and his feeling like a damn teenager was complete as he smoothed his hair and clothes.

 

"You're very welcome, Gregory."

 

"I've got to get a haircut," he mused, using his fingers to measure again how long his hair had gotten. 

 

"I... would rather you didn't." He looked over at his boyfriend(?!)and grinned. "At least for another couple of weeks. Perhaps... perhaps until the end of our holiday?"

 

"Whatever you want," Greg replied, startled inwardly by how much he meant it. He leaned in for another volley of sweet kisses that they firmly prevented from crossing the earlier line.

 

"If you must do the back to comply with regulations, then-"

 

"Shut up."

 

"Until tonight then."

 

"Most definitely."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To get a look at my general ideas about Mycroft's home go to the end of the chapter and cut and paste the links. Also if you haven't seen the Sherlock Blues Clues video it's perfect and I shall post that addy there as well!
> 
> Lookit me, all making notes and stuff like a real author...

Mycroft's house was as expected, dark finished woods and heavy materials with smatterings of modern technology playing hide and seek with the traditional, rather country manor decor. The butler(appropriately called by his surname McDonald)had been instructed to give Greg the grand tour, to which he listened precisely even though he was exhausted and Mycroft still wasn't home yet. He discovered a handwritten note on the bed. 

 

_Dearest Gregory,_

        _Unfortunately, I'm not sure how late I will be. I was very much looking forward to spending your first night in my home with you. Duty calls, however, as I'm sure you understand. There is a sandwich and beer in the refrigerator for you and the entire household is at your disposal. This will be your home for the foreseeable future. Please make yourself comfortable. I will see you as soon as possible._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

Greg chortled to himself, shaking his head fondly. Only Mycroft would sign a sweet personal letter with his whole name, as if he wouldn't know who it came from, as if Mycroft was a common name, or he forgot who's house he was in. Greg tried his best to stay awake anyway, taking a long shower with an apparently endless supply of hot water and slowly eating a sandwich that had been sweetly labeled "For Gregory". It was pastrami, French Munster cheese, a bit of veg and spicy mustard on one slice of dark bread, mayo on the other. It was, as many other things at the moment, nearly perfect. He grabbed what was(of course)his favourite brand of beer and savoured the feast at the light marble island work top. The pale stone reminded him of Mycroft's skin, veined with ginger like his speckles as opposed to blue or grey. He brushed his teeth thoroughly and went to bed wondering when exactly he'd become a teen-aged girl, seeing remnants of his crush in every aspect of life. Probably the first time he saw the true colour of Mycroft's eyes, if he was honest with himself. That made him groan in frustration and take himself in hand for a moment. Mycroft would know if he'd been wanking in his bed. Would he find that creepy? Titillating?

 

It didn't much matter in the end. Thinking of Mycroft's eyes lead to thinking of Mycroft's endearingly pointed nose and, beneath it, his mouth. All was lost at that point, his fist moving almost of its own accord over his length. Even just the man's smile was enough to keep him going, urgency for release building until his memory helpfully threw in that thing he did with his tongue to his ear and that did it. Greg grunted, muffling his cries with the pillow despite being pretty sure he was the only one in the entire corridor. He did a cursory wipe up with a few tissues from on top of the bedside table, tossed them in a convenient bin and drifted off, mostly happy.

 

He was more disappointed in the morning, when it looked as if Mycroft hadn't even come home.  _Busy_ , he thought sardonically.  _He's a very busy man_. As Greg wasn't holding out much hope for the holiday not being interrupted or cancelled altogether, he clomped down the stairs a bit heavily to not be throwing a tiny bit of a tantrum. He was fully dressed and about to procure some of that dark French roast he'd seen the night before when the rich smell of breakfast assaulted his senses, lightening his darkened mood. Coffee, bacon, eggs, toast all mingled to create the perfect symphony of morning refreshment. He peered around the kitchen door's frame, not wanting to disturb whatever sprightly elf was magicking up this feast for fear of scaring it off before it finished. It seemed the few staff members Mycroft kept made themselves scarce, McDonald the only one appearing on purpose and usually only when summoned.

 

"Myc?" 

 

The full frontal apron was printed with(what else?)a dark suit with a dark tie peppered with little white skulls. A crisp white button up was rolled up past his elbows, exposing swaths of bare skin with ginger hairs that shouldn't have been as exciting as it was. A tea towel was slung over his left shoulder and it was pressed into service wiping those hands as he turned to the source of his name being called. It was at once absurd and one of the greatest things Greg had ever seen.

 

"What's all this, then?" Greg asked, crossing his arms and leaning his right shoulder on the frame. The smile he couldn't hide was adoring.

 

"My apologies for being unable to come home to you on your first night here," Mycroft said tightly, as if apologising for being late to a business engagement. _Come home_  seemed the perfect phrase, regardless of the fact that this was the first time he'd ever been here and Greg was almost giddy with the comfortable weight of it.

 

"Well we knew what we were getting into, didn't we?" He moved into the room, toward this man that, he admitted to himself with alarming speed and fervency, he loved. 

 

"That we did," Mycroft agreed, loosely brandishing a spatula and looking at Greg with a warily expectant expression. Just as he was reached, Mycroft saw the slow smolder in eyes the same colour as their favourite chocolates and grasped the knob that doused the burner beneath the omelette. Greg slipped his arms around Mycroft's waist, pulling that lithe body against his properly for the first time and nearly lost all sense when their lips met and Mycroft's arms encircled his shoulders. Greg tasted the samples Mycroft shared of his cooking, then tried his level best to obliterate it from his mouth with various stroking and sucking of the other man's tongue. Mycroft seemed to melt just a bit before re-straightening, but only slowing the kiss, not stopping it. "Gregory," he said between them. "The breakfast."

 

"Are you not on the menu?" It may have been a cheesy line but he meant it with his whole heart. Well, body, too.

 

"Dinner," Mycroft promised breathlessly as Greg lay warm lips in various spots on the smoothness of his neck. A rather undignified cry was pulled from The British Government when Lestrade managed to loosen the perfectly knotted canary yellow tie with prominent teeth and get below the collar to suck a mark into an inconspicuous spot. Feeling Mycroft's hips jut forward, creating a stroke of friction for their aching cocks was just about all she wrote for Greg, who continued a slow undulation with a low moan. "If either of us are to make it to work today, I suggest we eat-" Once again his mouth was plundered. Then Greg took a determined, if breathy step back, redid Mycroft's top button(also a victim of his agile mouth), straightened his tie and made his way carefully to a stool on the opposite side of the island. Mycroft stood blinking for a long moment after that, seemingly off-line.

 

The omelette encompassed all of the smells except for the coffee which was a rich concoction on it's own, a dash of milk and a packet of some sort of cane sugar derivative balanced it well. The meal, charged with an abundant desire, passed in near silence. But for the clink of dishes, the scrape of forks, and slight appreciative noises, there was nothing, not even single words. By the time it was over, everything had calmed down slightly. The men helped each other on with their coats and pulled on their gloves. With only a rather chaste peck on the lips, they walked out to their respective vehicles idling in the drive, praying for their often eventful days to go quickly.

 

 

 

***

Greg stood over a corpse he knew would interest The World's Only Consulting Detective with its no-access room, a message written on the hotel room wall in someone else's blood, and several other way too obvious clues such as perfect footprints leading into and out of the en suite, three hairs pulled from the root, and a woman's intact forefinger, the nail a blush colour and rather long, but not belonging to the corpse. Next to each of them were stamps of some sort that were a cluster of blue circles that vaguely resembled a paw print. Greg almost smiled as a random memory of Sophie sitting happily on the sofa the week before when Greg had the morning off and she hadn't felt well enough to go to child care. She'd pointed at the television where the American bloke in a polo horizontally striped in two different shades of green flapped about with a poorly animated blue dog who helped him solve "mysteries". By the time he was radioed that Sherlock had arrived, Lestrade had to leave the room with the excuse that he was going to wait for him at the lifts, so he could relieve a bit of the built up laughter. The doors opened to the dramatic detective and his partner both standing with their hands clasped behind their back, the only difference was John had his feet apart a bit for a more solid stance where Sherlock's were together, maximizing looming capabilities.

 

"Something funny Inspector?"

 

"No I... it's nothing. I think." Sherlock spared him a single arched eyebrow before walking toward the police chatter. John frowned at him but Greg just gave him an  _I'll tell you later_  look and John nodded curtly, satisfied where Sherlock was clearly a bit perturbed. 

 

Greg gave him a short rundown of the crime scene on the way to the door and, before Sherlock was able to employ his initial unpleasantness, cleared the room with a command. 

 

"Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?" Sherlock asked loudly. "Did you lose the last of your good sense in my brother's bed and rehire Anderson?" Greg shut his eyes tight, tuning out the light snickers and heavy eyes of the officers behind him that were at first attempting to watch Sherlock Holmes work, now trying to figure out if their commanding officer had just been outed.

 

"Sherlock," warned John a bit too late.

 

"No, I want to know. It looks like some sort of cartoon show in here."

 

"How would you know?" Greg asked, glad of at least something to counter with. Sherlock went quiet for a moment, eyes darting over Greg's form with lightning speed before turning back to the crime scene.

 

"Oh! You haven't shagged him yet. Well, better luck next time. I'm sure that'll be remedied when he takes you on holiday. Probably to that little private island near Morocco, going by his schedule.  _Literally_  taking you to the Kasbah. How original. By the way, if I'm subjected to the sight of another remnant of your time together, I shall fall dreadfully ill and you'll be left to solve some cases on your own, for a change. Now! You were-" It was the last straw. Sometimes, Greg had learned, the best way to deal with a toddler's tantrum was to have a bigger one. He drew on his anger and embarrassment and let it fly, inching further and further into Sherlock's personal space as he'd seen the man himself do many a time.

 

"I'm sure as hell going to shag him tonight. I'm going to shag the hell out of him. I'm going to shag him through the bloody mattress. I'm planning to  _destroy_  him. And it won't matter in the least where we mark each other as you'd deduce it even if you couldn't see it. So make sure to get yourself a couple of extra bins and line them, alright? Do you feel better? Eh? Anyone else have something to add or can we talk about the bloody murder victim now?" Everyone's eyes were wide with fear and a bit of shock before the corridor decor became a lot more interesting than anything that may or may not have been going on in the room. Sherlock and John were of course the first to recover.

 

"Going well then, is it?" John, who had perfected the ability to listen without listening took one step forward and seemed to emerge out of thin air, barely containing his mirth.

 

"Swimmingly," Greg confirmed.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat warily and said, even more quickly than before, "If you had just let me finish, I was merely going to ask what about this crime scene were you laughing at?"

 

"The Youtube video you sent me the other day!" John announced, his contained chuckles from the images now burned into Sherlock's brain turning into outright laughter at the memory of the bloke in the messy black wig bursting into the blue cartoon dog's house. That set Lestrade off and they had a merry old time for about a second. They halted at a piercing glare from the one who was parodied, and Greg could tell that John felt a bit guilty. He didn't, though. Serves the arrogant bugger right. Not that he needed to, but he considered himself a nice guy, and so clapped Sherlock on the back, nearly knocking him forward.

 

"You're not properly famous until someone's done a parody of you, mate." Lestrade offered. "Get me home in time for dinner and there are a couple of cold cases in it for you." The baby mollified with a lolli, Sherlock, with a moue of absolute revulsion at what was going to be Lestrade's reward, set to work.

 

"Can I use that?" John queried, still grinning. "The promise of an interesting case following the shock of his brother's sex life?"

 

"Whatever works. Have at it."

 

"Ta."

 

"John! Come!" It was the wrong thing for Sherlock to angrily call out because fresh laughter washed over the two men. Sherlock sighed deeply. "When you've quite finished behaving like pre-adolescents..."

 

"Oi, you're one to talk!" Lestrade pointed out.

 

"I'd better..." John indicated going in the direction of his friend, both he and Lestrade still trembling with leftover levity. 

 

At lunch Greg received a delivery. Sitting on his desk when he went to grab his coat to go to the vendor outside was another of those sublime sandwiches and tea exactly how he liked it and piping hot. Mycroft sure knew how to spoil a bloke. There wasn't a note this time but the incoming text made him glad he'd cleared his desk top to make room for his food and drink in case it spilled. 

 

**_This is the second time in as many days that I have had to masturbate whilst at the office. - MH_ **

****

Greg blinked at the message for a long moment after mopping up the bit of tea that had sprayed out of his mouth upon reading it. Was Mycroft Holmes  _sexting_  him? He cautiously typed out a reply.

 

_I was having a bit of an issue myself, IIH_

_**I haven't had to masturbate since I was fifteen. -MH** _

__

Nope. Not sexting. Rather distressed, if his guess was correct. Greg felt a little badly about counting this as an achievement. He grinned in a lascivious manner that he knew Mycroft would be able to sense.

 

_What did you do after that last time when you were fifteen?_

_**I found willing partners -MH** _

It made sense. Mycroft was almost abnormally persuasive. Greg had no doubt the man simply ordered the subject of his desire into bed and that person jumped to comply. 

_Make sure to save some for me ;)_

Greg set his phone aside and picked up a stack of papers to start going through. He purposely didn't take another sip or bite, just to be on the safe side. When his phone chimed again, he at first pictured Mycroft rolling his eyes or mentioning something scientific about refractory periods. However, when he actually picked it up again and read the response, he'd had to adjust the crotch of his trousers.

 

**_There is yet quite a large supply. I'm sure you won't be disappointed in the volume. -MH_ **

****

Greg almost had to give himself a go right then, but managed to somehow make it to six pm. He all but ran out of the building, coat half on and texting at the same time. Mycroft replied that he'd love to sample Gregory

 

's cooking.

 

With a sigh, Greg turned the car around to retrieve the bags of groceries he'd procured on his way back to the station after having been handed an important file as he was about to step into his vehicle. It was quite James Bond, though it contained nothing but the recipes he'd asked for.

 

The simplest one was a lamb dish he was quite sure he'd made a version of before and had everything cooking nicely in no time, having called on the few tricks he learned from his French chef granddad when he was spending Summers working in his kitchens at his restaurant. A British teen-aged boy in France had better things to do than hang about learning the tricks of the trade, but, in the Summer he turned sixteen, his grandfather had gotten him interested in the best way possible. 

 

"Women love a good cook," he would say in his heavily accented English. Gregory did know more French than he let on but he still wasn't as comfortable as he should have been with the language. Besides, it was a nice touch to get the native speakers to "teach" him. That had been the best Summer of his life. He'd always known he looked at boys the same way he did girls, but that year he was introduced properly to the possibilities open to him. He'd put a lot more effort into learning techniques and getting to know his grandfather properly. He was so glad he did because that Winter, _Grandpere_ succumbed randomly to a rather rare strain of influenza that he didn't get treated properly.

 

The sobering thoughts took the edge off of the burning anticipation, much to Greg's relief. He wanted this to go slowly, as they would have time to savour it now, and the way he was from the moment Mycroft texted him until then, the bureaucrat may have gotten pounced upon at the door and taken in the foyer no matter who was around to spy and whisper.

 

He heard the front door finally, drew a deep breath, and made his way down the curved staircase, hand sliding along the beautifully carved balustrade. He'd splurged on house shoes and a new dressing gown. It wasn't silk or anything but it was that sheened deep blue that Mycroft seemed to prefer on him. Something about bringing out the silver highlights in his hair and complimenting his eyes... or something...

 

Greg had a plan for if he didn't come in alone, which is what he thought the most likely scenario. In the event of that happening, he was to go directly to the kitchen to await his sweetheart's attention. As predicted, Mycroft entered the house, still giving the driver, whom Greg supposed was his stand-in PA, verbal instruction. He didn't stop talking when he lay brilliant blue eyes on him but a small smile crept onto his features as McDonald took his umbrella, coat, and gloves. That tiny change in expression was enough to undo all the hard work Greg had put into calming himself and he could only smile back and rush into the other room trying his best to recall his sadness over his Granddad's passing or, frankly, anything else that would let him last a bit longer. 

 

His heart jumped about in his chest as if it wasn't attached to anything when he heard the door open and close with a curt farewell from both parties and the sound of Mycroft's expensive Italian shoes approaching with a deliberately measured gait. Mycroft closed the distance between them with a few long strides and lowered his face to Greg's for a series of sweet but heated kisses, reminiscent of the scene that morning.

   

"I hope you're hungry," Greg managed between small lip touches of bliss.

 

"For many things," Mycroft replied, his voice in a lower register than usual and it sent an extra thrill through him. There was to be little to no desperation at the moment. Now was the time for relaxing and refueling. 

 

"Go on and get comfortable. All should be ready by then. I'd help you but the food would burn."

 

"Despite what my brother says, you are infinitely wise, Gregory." That earned Mycroft a spank on his pert backside. Unable to resist another feel, he gave it another strong pat and a squeeze then pulled himself away before there was more of an issue than could be avoided. It was again nearly too much when Mycroft came back down, fresh and clean in only a crimson silk dressing gown and matching house shoes. He was apparently letting his hair air-dry and it was all Greg could do not to run his hands through it. He kept them busy with preparation and presentation.

 

They purposely sat across from each other, taking care not to indulge too much in the exquisite wine Lestrade paired with it. Just enough to take the edge off, as the first time was always a bit nerve-wracking.

 

It was perfect. The massive fireplace in the master bedroom was crackling and snapping as if in celebration of  _yes_  and  _finally_. Something low and aching and played on string instruments was sliding out of hidden speakers, providing background music for the melody about to be composed. 

 

Greg was finally able to figure out a balance. Tonight was for learning and showing. He knew he was able to catch on quickly but only slightly afraid that Mycroft's exponentially faster wit would leave him in the dust pretty quickly, so he had to bring his best game. Doing that thing he does, Mycroft was the first to break the verbal barrier.

 

"There's no reason to be nervous, Gregory. I just want you to touch me."

 

"That's not a problem," he smirked before reaching out to undo the belt of Mycroft's dressing gown. He started at his face, cradling it in his hands and now reveling in the contrast he just noticed with slight amusement before. He placed a reverent kiss over each baby blue eye, the bridge of his noble nose, and a small one on his candied lips. He then watched as he moved his palms down the long column of his pale neck, over the skin of shoulders so that it pushed the dressing gown aside and, finally, down far enough slip to the floor, pooling around long sinewy feet. The hair on his chest was curled, warm ginger and strawberry blond despite the raven on his head. There was sedate silver scattered through it as well and it was downy soft to the touch, Greg's fingers slipping easily through it.

 

He passed a fingertip over each already taut nipple, eliciting a small breathless sound he wanted to hear repeatedly in different volumes and tones. He repeated the action, speeding up, slowing down, flicking and lightly pinching until Mycroft was whimpering a little then, filing away that bit of information for experimentation later, continued on the way down to the flat belly he seemed so self-conscious about. Greg caressed it until the expected protests began, then cut them off by falling to his knees and nuzzling it, employing lips, tongue, and a little bit of teeth. He wanted badly to dive lower and do something about the near perfect pyramid of Mycroft's red silk boxers but he had to make sure Mycroft felt every single part of him looked after.

 

Greg got to his feet, feeling surprisingly agile and put his arms properly around Mycroft, kissing him soundly and murmuring to him between gentle pecks about how perfect every part of him was as he moved them toward the bed. He lay Mycroft down gently, making sure to trail his hands over the creamy, speckled skin demonstrating the difficult time he was having stopping long enough to shed his own dressing gown. He ripped it off and scrambled atop Mycroft, straddling his narrow hips and engulfing his torso. He pushed his nose into Mycroft's neck, just breathing him in as arms snaked securely around him. Hips jerked up, the heat of their erections absolutely mind melting as the motion pushed a groan out of them both. 

 

The anticipation was delicious, Greg's parted lips put to good use tasting every inch of his lover's flesh he could reach. When he reached the silk-covered mountain at the crux of Mycroft's lithe legs, he nuzzled it, mouthing at the material, inhaling deeply and marveling at his current position. How had he gotten this lucky after so much trouble? He must have done something correctly, he thought, teasing mercilessly by sticking his tongue through the slit of Mycroft's pants to tickle actual flesh with the tip. He freed the flushed member using only his mouth, hovering over it and exhaling slowly. Mycroft then established a reason other than aesthetics he preferred Gregory's hair a bit longer. He wasn't into major pain or anything, but an ardent tug such as he was currently experiencing or a scratch here and there was not unwelcome to the detective inspector.

 

A split second of doubt crossed his mind as he slowly kissed the long, rather thick stem of Mycroft's cock. It had been more than ten years since he'd had a bloke in his mouth. He fully enjoyed the sensation, but did he still have "it"? Well, there was no other way to find out. Greg delicately stabilized Mycroft with his right hand, stroking down to the base to retract the foreskin and stare greedily at the clear liquid beading copiously on the head. He ran the flat of his tongue across it then rolled what it had gathered across the roof of his mouth to luxuriate in its taste as if sampling a fine scotch. He glanced up at Mycroft from beneath long, peppery lashes to lock eyes as he swallowed him down in one go, making the already writhing man call out something that may have been his name. He pulled his mouth up, sucking lightly until he popped off.

 

"Please," Mycroft begged. "Inside me. Please, Gregory." Greg was a good detective and had noticed the selection of practical items on the bedside table. Trust Mycroft to be prepared for most eventualities, including a bloody  _warmer_  for the lube and wet wipes. He vaguely wondered where all this was the night before and, despite his inability to form more than the most basic of thoughts in the wake of Mycroft's pleas, Greg managed to select the bottle of lube and set about preparing his beloved to receive him.

 

Greg slid both their pants off and lay on his side to Mycroft's right. He indulged a moment running his hand flat across and down the whole of his lover's torso then demonstrated his manual agility by first pushing open the cap with his thumb, then twiddling it so he could squeeze it into his palm. 

 

"Let me have that leg, love," Greg coaxed. Mycroft complied, kindly replacing the lube as he draped a nimble thigh over Greg's stockier one. Greg spread the substance over his palm and fingers by repeatedly making a fist, letting the excess drip conveniently into the exposed cleft of Mycroft's arse. He only wished he could see exactly what that looked like but that would mean he'd have to give up the manipulation of Mycroft's agile fingers along his spine, inducing uncontrollable whines from Greg he'd have felt self-conscious about in any other situation.

 

"Shiatsu," Mycroft explained, as if Greg could pay attention to anything other than tasting his skin and the light stroking he'd begun around Mycroft's compressed entrance. An aroused and slightly sweaty Mycroft tasted like Summer, slightly humid, savory, musky and the promise of eventual tension release and relaxation. It was absolutely flawless and Greg felt like biting him. So he did, gnawing playfully at his side until the normally aloof man actually giggled in a manner that may have been classified as inelegant to someone who didn't know what a treasure they were beholding.

 

The laughter was causing excessive clenching, counterproductive to what Greg was trying to achieve here. So he began broad swipes of his tongue over Mycroft’s right pectoral, culminating into swirling directly over his nipple. Greg’s back was only being clutched now, the free hand on the end of the arm wrapped around Mycroft flicking at the other sensitive nub. By now, he had two fingers gliding in and out easily.

 

And holy fuck, the  _noises_  he made! They were part sob, part groan, and all raw _Need_ , an audio Ambrosia of which Greg would never be full. "Yes," he found himself encouraging. "Let me hear you, love." When Greg brushed his prostate, he froze solid, azure eyes wide and not even breathing. Greg ceased all movement, terrified he'd somehow done something wrong.

 

"I can climax just from nipple stimulation," Mycroft finally confessed after a long, horrific moment. Greg blew out the breath he'd been holding in conjunction and removed his left hand, his mouth barely touching Mycroft's skin. "I don't want to finish the first time without you inside me."

 

"Understood," Greg conceded. "Wait, the first time?" He resumed his fingering almost absently, avoiding the prostate for now and just kissing what he could reach with a slight obliviousness.

 

"Oh don't doubt yourself, Gregory." His voice was only slightly breathy. "I assume you explored your bisexuality in France and were taught a great many things. I'm glad there are a few things left up to me. Another."

 

"Wh... how... another what?" 

 

" _Finger_ , Gregory. I require another finger to accommodate you comfortably. You're thicker than you seem to think you are. I'll educate you in the art of the male multiple orgasm another time. But if you persist in repeatedly stopping whenever you have a question I shall scream, and not in the way you lIIIke! Oh yes!" With another cheeky brushing of that most sensitive nerve bundle, Gregory resumed his work with careful gusto. "Now, Gregory!" he commanded fumbling lubrication into his hand and clutching blindly at Greg's gloriously hard cock that had been rutting against his hip. "Now now now!" 

 

The sensation when he first sank in was unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life. He'd had to go extremely slowly to keep from going off as soon as the head breached the initial ring of muscle. Despite a lengthy prep time, it was still unbelievably tight, the heat and slickness combined with it nearly unbearable. They lay there, Greg fully seated, Mycroft twisted in what looked like an uncomfortable way so he could hold him as well, but not even twitching in a manner that would suggest he was anything but in a normal position. After a long moment of just breathing each other's air, Mycroft began capturing Greg's lips individually until, after a soul-wrenching kiss, he simply and softly said,

 

"Move."

 

It was slow and deliberate, Greg moving his hips in almost lethargic circles until he found the exact angle he wanted for Mycroft, the one that made him moan uncontrollably and buck backward, his body trying to hasten the process even as his mind tried to slow it down. It finally accepted the pace but trembled almost uncontrollably. Greg was stuttering out word fragments that registered as emotional declarations, only enhanced by the fact that they were being answered in similar fashion by his normally loquacious partner. He sped his strokes, going as deeply as possible. Mycroft had given up his contortion act in favour of allowing Greg to suck deep purple marks into the sensitive skin along his neck, back, and shoulders. It was mottled within a manner of minutes, and then Greg showed the extent of his restraint, his ability to wring every last drop of pleasure from his lover before letting the session end.

 

Mycroft was nearly shouting when Greg grabbed delicate hold of his cock with just his fingertips and began stroking it. Greg brought him to the edge three times, only willing to let him come when he was reduced to only being able to beg and call him by the shortened version of his name as the common people did. His own tentative cool went out the window when Mycroft began coming hard, muscles clenching around Greg with a cry of, "Oh fuck, Greg, yes! Don't stop! Please don't stop yet!" At this point, Greg was making good on his earlier promise to Sherlock, having gripped Mycroft's hips with both hands hard enough to bruise and slamming into him with abandon. Mycroft was actively  _milking_  him, grinding those slim hips in quick little circles, clenching and un-clenching deliberately. He stopped just before over-sensitivity became an issue, keeping everything but that precise area touching.

 

"Oh my God, Myc," he panted. "I have never in my life come that hard." He set several gentle kisses at the nape and base of Mycroft's neck over marks he was inordinately proud of.

 

"Yes," mused the man himself. "It has been a long time since someone has been able to get me to swear aloud in a positive manner." Greg lifted his leaded head to look down at his love, letting it fall again as they broke out in tired laughter. He was higher than he'd ever been. Even more giddy than that Summer when he was sixteen and had gotten the best ever blow job from the girl with the prettiest plump lips he'd ever seen. Everyone else had their sights set on her but her being Greek, he'd made her that lamb braised in red wine, she'd shared her stash and mouth. He supposed it was because he was the only one out of the droves that were after her that didn't actually expect anything, despite how much he  _wanted_. And now, when he closed his eyes and pictured her face with those lips wrapped exquisitely around his prick, they thinned and faded from bright red to luscious pink. The dark hair shortened and receded a bit and her lovely dark eyes crystallized to a blue whose beauty was beyond compare. He hadn't yet experienced oral sex from Mycroft Holmes, though the way he kissed seemed extremely close if he was honest. But he figured it would be just like this, pushing all others out of his mind and replacing them with just him as he was already doing. 

 

It didn't look like the multiple orgasm lesson was happening any time soon and, for now, he couldn't bring himself to worry about it much. In fact he could bring himself to do very little about anything. The concept of breathing properly was just returning as he realized that Mycroft was tidying them with the warmed wet wipes. Greg's eyes widened when he saw him wiping off his own cheek.

 

"My God, really?" The light, though dim and in perpetual motion was still sufficient enough to see a slight blush return momentarily to Mycroft's dear face as he nodded and turned away with a shy smirk that would have made Greg ready to go again if he wasn't so sated. A bottle of water appeared and Greg blinked at it in his hand as if unable to identify it.

 

"There's a mini fridge," Mycroft explained nonchalantly. 

 

"Of course there is." He nudged the back of his bed mate's thigh with his knee. When Mycroft turned back, his own unopened water in hand, Greg seized his face and kissed him firmly. "I do love you, you know."

 

"And I you, Gregory." 

 

Drinking the water did not come easy, as neither one of them was willing to sit up. Greg nearly drowned twice but couldn't be arsed to care as he hacked up the water he'd aspirated just turning onto his side. Mycroft did an elaborate trick, stripping a layer from beneath them without either of them having to sit up or even move too much. 

 

Sleep, however, came just fine.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My vision of Mycroft's house is based on the tiny bits we saw on the show and these two listings. Not the areas(though they are ten miles or less out of London), just the houses. Just based, mind you, as the interior isn't as modern except for the kitchen
> 
> Exterior: http://www.primelocation.com/for-sale/details/31048840  
> Inerior: http://www.primelocation.com/for-sale/details/30602858 
> 
> Sherlock's Blue's Clues: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKgtvYS6YVo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft are having quite a lot of sex...

Over the next several days, Greg learned the ins and outs of Mycroft's sexual preferences extremely easily. He'd always prided himself on being an attentive partner and Mycroft certainly put him through his paces from the beginning. In the low light of the bedroom fire, the generally apathetic government official made deep-rooted confessions and declarations that Greg soaked up greedily. Mycroft confirmed that he'd gotten a full circle reputation as being the best at everything, including of course sex. But he only had sex one other time with someone he cared about more than a base affection as one would feel about something inanimate(though of course he knew they were people and treated them as such regardless of whether or not he felt they deserved it). It had not ended well and was chalked up as yet another item on the list of why caring wasn't an advantage and he should avoid it as much as possible. He was kissed thoroughly for that.

 

After recalling the reaction Greg had being called so by Mycroft, the prat would use it  _just to mess with him_. He didn't abuse it per se, but he was very specific about it. He would never text it, nor use it during the business part of a conversation, but every so often, he would end an exchange of no particular sort with, "Good-bye, Greg." It was a simple phrase that everyone used, but from Mycroft's mouth, his well-traveled, sharp-tongued, wicked mouth, it instantly transported Greg's thoughts to a very different Mycroft. One that was sweating and swearing and begging. After that, he was sometimes so very thankful for a good gruesome murder scene that he felt guilty.

 

Greg made the mistake of thinking that now that the barest of edges had been taken off, that it'd be easier to keep his hands to himself for at least a few minutes at a time. But of course not. He was effectively sixteen again. Mycroft was more than everyone he even spoke to that perfect Summer put together and, therefore, irresistible. But, as with everyone, there were rules and cues. Greg learned quickly enough, he just found himself nearly pouting with frustration every time he hit one or the other.

 

For instance, Mycroft refused all proper advances before an important meeting. More than a chaste kiss or lingering touch in a generally non-erogenous area was forbidden. It was made especially more difficult that next morning. A shower together was out of the question. Greg's division had collaborated with some lower level section of Mycroft's division and they had to ride to work together. Greg had to be around him the whole time, close enough to smell him for most of it. Attempting to respect Mycroft's rule he tried placing himself across the traditional meeting room, having to stand as the number of people exceeded the number of seats and many of them were elders. Greg did as he was supposed to, taking down notes and interjecting when necessary using his best grammar, but Mycroft's eyes turned sorrowful and a bit longing in light of the distance. Greg was positive he was the only one who could read this, the others in the room not correctly interpreting his boyfriend's slight brightening when he gave in and went back to his rightful place, standing to the right of the grand leather chair at the head of the massive oak table.

 

The two retreated to Mycroft's office at the Diogenes which was, effectively the one in which the-let's face it-government agent received the general populace. The plan was to put a neat bow on the entire joint effort so that, after lunch, he could go back to the Yard and they could each finish their respective day. They discussed the last of it with Greg's back resting against the closed door and Mycroft leaning his bum carefully against the front lip of his desk, crossing his arms casually. 

 

"So," Greg asked, mirroring Mycroft's arm position and trying his best not to  _want_  so much, "Takeaway, a restaurant, or should I just grab something off the truck on my way back?" Mycroft took in every aspect of him in a single passing of his eyes down then back up his form.

 

"It's always busiest preceding a holiday," Mycroft stated, not even blinking as he gazed at Greg who was suddenly a bit too warm. "But I think there's enough time for a takeaway. There are some menus in the top drawer of my desk over there." Mycroft gestured vaguely to his left, only moving again to lower his arms and grip the edge of the desk against which he leaned when Greg approached. Greg moved around his left leg to stand nearly hip to hip at first then, instead of going around properly, leaned as far as he could over the surface to open the drawer at an awkward angle and root through it for a little longer than he needed to.

 

"What are you in the mood for?" Greg asked, sifting through them and pushing the tip of his tongue against his top right teeth. "And don't give me any of that shite about skipping lunch and dieting and all. I'll keep you healthy." He flicked his eyes briefly to his love and grinned down at the menu after registering the pupils ringed with blue ice that were much wider than the light of the room called for.

 

"Japanese," Mycroft seemed to blurt without hesitation. It seemed a good compromise of health and taste and so Greg agreed, pulling out his mobile and punching in the numbers. Yes his boyfriend had connections and money, but Greg refused to be a kept man. He had his pride, like anyone else and, in an even tone, ordered their meal, seamlessly incorporating Mycroft's input for his preferences. When he was finished, he ended the call and, as Mycroft had begun to say something, hauled the taller man fully onto the desk after pushing between his long, slim legs. His suit today was a storm cloud grey. He grasped Mycroft's tie, a sapphire silk that yet again matched Greg's suit and feigned straightening it one-handed as he leaned in as close as possible without going cross-eyed, their noses nearly touching. He was overjoyed to see Mycroft's lips parted, the man breathing a bit heavier than normal.

 

"How many more meetings today... Myc?" Greg tilted his head to the right a bit and got closer on saying his name, then pulled back to his original position.

 

"None scheduled," Mycroft huffed, almost helplessly Greg thought. "Just the... mountain of paperwork you yourself have as well." Mycroft cleared his throat. "But there's no telling what... crisis could pop up." Greg let his face fall a little, in no way reflecting what he felt really. He knew Mycroft was serious, and could hold out indefinitely as long as he was sure his partner felt the same heady desire. With a mischievous smirk, he stopped the gradual loosening of Mycroft's tie and began tightening it just as slowly and carefully. "But I know all of the statistics and there is extremely little chance for that to happen," Mycroft added quickly.

 

"Oh? Well, good then. Gives me time to take care of this." Only then did he palm Mycroft's protruding crotch to a satisfying,

 

"Oh!"

 

It was quick and almost dirty. They both had the idea of carrying lube packets and wet wipes in their pockets, close enough to retain body heat and be discreet in case they had to hurriedly masturbate each other somewhere whilst waiting for their food order to be ready. Everything Mycroft did had become the hottest thing Greg had ever experienced and he learned that sucking lightly on Mycroft tongue brought forth the best sounds and half phrases. Because as he used both hands to work their pricks against each other, Mycroft went from moving his skillful hands knowingly over surfaces in a manner that Greg would drift off thinking about at inopportune times, to clutching anything he could get at. Usually, as it was in this instance, it was Greg's shoulders. Mycroft nearly tore his suit jacket gripping and tugging hard on it as he swore as best he could with Greg suckling on and moaning encouragingly around his tongue.

 

Greg "paid" for the tryst when Sherlock noticed a single drop of semen on the tail of his absently un-tucked dress shirt when he unbuttoned his jacket to sit down on the other side of his own desk back at The Yard. They were both almost positive, Mycroft had spotted it and left it there on purpose. Sherlock made gagging noises but refused the little bin when offered. And when asked if Sherlock's more frequent visits were his version of 'hurt my loved one and you die horribly', the consulting detective rolled his green(-ish blue-ish, grey-ish, yellow-ish) eyes so hard Greg was sure they would fall out of his head and roll across the floor. Sherlock said some non-committal words and departed dramatically to Greg's light laughter.

 

It obviously meant 'yes'.

 

 

 

***

Already in tune with Mycroft's moods regardless of whether or not he knew exactly what to do immediately, Greg sensed great tension when the Queen's left hand(because that Harry bloke was her right hand but they weren't supposed to talk about it, especially not the fact that Greg had figured that out)came in the door very late that night. Greg sat comfortably in what was called The Viewing Room but was actually just a fancy den with a gigantic flatscreen. He was going through the barely used channels of which there were literally hundreds and amusing himself as he waited up. 

 

Normally the picture of politeness, Greg was slightly taken aback when Mycroft stormed into the room, still in his coat and gripping his umbrella, and snapped, "My office. Immediately." Something must have been really wrong for him not have even said 'please'. Greg's heart sped up with concerned anticipation. He recognized the tone that was to be obeyed promptly and without question. Despite his immediate acquiescence, by the time he got to the door, Mycroft was already seated in his large leather desk chair, leaning on his elbows with his palms pressed together. His index finger tips rested lightly on his bottom lip and the look he gave Greg from under a deeply furrowed brow would have been arousing if it wasn't so terrifying. His coat and umbrella lay draped over and leaning against a chair in the corner respectively. Although nearly fresh from the shower in his dressing gown and clean pants(his second pair needed that day, thank you very much Mycroft)Greg stood almost at attention, as if back in uniform.

 

"Alright, Myc?" he risked asking, but not approaching the desk. Mycroft's eerie silence was answer enough. Finally, he spoke, his tone commanding and measured.

 

"Step in and close the door." Still no please. He even said please to prisoners and suspects. Greg did as he was instructed. "Stand there." The only indication was where his eyes went because Mycroft did not so much as move a finger to show him where he was supposed to go. He walked to the spot before the center of the three less comfortable but still quite luxurious visitors chairs. It was apparently the correct place because in this mood, it didn't seem like Mycroft would have any compunction about telling him if it wasn't. 

 

He supposed he couldn't help it. Never mind that this aspect of their relationship was still very new and in the honeymoon phase, but being the subject of Mycroft's full attention regardless of the mood under which it was given never did anything less than provoke his body's most basic desires. Mycroft stared at him until he was completely and almost painfully erect. Greg tried to will it away, knew Mycroft would notice it even concealed as it was, even without ever having looked down.

 

"Take off your clothes." Greg raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to ask what all this was but Mycroft cut that off at the pass. "Now." His voice had returned to unmitigated steel. Apparently its very slight softening seemed to make Greg mistakenly think he had permission to ask questions at this particular time. Greg shed his dressing gown and stepped out of his house shoes. A single eyebrow climbing Mycroft's forehead was enough to let him know that the pants were to go as well. He set his jaw, refusing to show nerves during this... whatever it was.

 

Mycroft rose and came around the bulky dark wood monstrosity that was clear of everything but a large blotter. He circled his lover, a stalking wolf, even going so far as to smell him. Whatever was happening, Mycroft was in a primal mood and Greg nearly shook with the excitement of it. Having made a complete circle, Mycroft ran just the fingertips of his right hand down the center of Greg's torso, starting at the base of his throat and ending just before his pubic hair began properly. Greg sucked in a breath when his wrist brushed the side of his jutting cock as he pulled his hand back to his side.

 

"Sit." 

 

Greg nearly fell into the chair behind him, back straight, hands on his knees as he had no clue how else he was supposed to be sitting. The entire time, his consolation was the obvious tightening of Mycroft's perfectly tailored trousers. He wasn't even breathing hard. Greg envied his training.

 

"Stroke yourself. Slowly. Use one hand and keep the rest of your body as still as possible." 

 

He did as he was directed, almost but not quite surprised when Mycroft produced a small bottle of lube and squeezed a generous amount messily over the action in progress. It dripped down over his bollocks and into the valley of his arse crack onto the chair, making obscene squelching noises as he worked his shaft. Mycroft watched him for a moment then... went back to his desk and pulled out a file, opening it and beginning to read in the quiet of the room where the only sounds were Greg's masturbatory breathing and lubrication and an old ticking grandfather clock of which there seemed to be one in every room of the massive house. Greg stared at him for a full three seconds before,

 

"I didn't tell you to stop." Greg resumed, the incredulous look never leaving his face. Every once in a while, Mycroft would look up from what he was doing and watch him for a while or, without even looking up instruct him to slow down, speed up, or stop altogether. He could tell when Greg was close to the edge regardless of how measured his strokes were to remain and would always stop him one or two strokes away from climax. It was... incredibly hot. He finally pulled out another file and, eyes still on his work as if giving his PA instructions, told Greg that he was to be fully open by the time he was done. "You may keep stroking but you are  _not_  to go anywhere near your prostate. I'll know if you do."

 

"Yes, sir, Mister Holmes." Mycroft did look at him then, Greg's helpless smirk around soft groaning breaths making him sigh, then clamp his mouth together and pointedly get back to work. There was plenty of excess lube so Greg could got to it right away. Though it was a bigger file than the last, it took Mycroft less than ten minutes to make his various marks in it, all the while listening to his own personal sexual broadcast. Some of them were even words, swearing and his formal moniker steadily building. "Oh, God, Mister Holmes, Yes! Oh, sir. Yes. Sir. Please..." Greg had to go even more slowly now that he knew he wasn't to get himself off without permission.

 

Mycroft gave no more prior indication of his intentions. Yes, they were obvious in general but the specifics were what made it mind blowing despite that fact. As if he was in his regular office, Mycroft closed the file he'd been working on, stacked it neatly on top of the other and pulled out the drawer into which they were then both placed. He then pushed his chair as far back as it would go and stood. He didn't even say anything this time, only snapped his fingers twice and pointed to the space between him and his desk. Greg strode to the spot and was examined from the front for a charged moment before being spun and slammed down on the desk top hard enough to get his attention. Familiar yet still thrilling hands ran down his broad shoulders and arms, gripping his thick wrists when they reached them. His hands were wrenched back and Mycroft began winding what he soon recognized as his tie around them until they were secure. As he took in the sounds of Mycroft unfastening his trousers, he tested his bindings.

 

"You won't be getting free unless I allow it," Mycroft said in a manner that fairly shouted that he wasn't going to allow it any time soon. Greg wasn't really one to be dominated. It went against his very nature in many aspects. But something had happened today, making it so Mycroft needed this and whatever he needed, Greg was determined to give him. Mycroft was gently sliding his hand over the terrain of his back, fingering some of the scars and marks of his life and his chosen career until he brought it to Greg's right hip, tightening his grip. 

 

"Yes, siiirOooh, shit!" He was extremely glad he'd prepared himself well as Mycroft pushed all the way in with one smooth movement. There was only a moment in which to get used to the initial discomfort, the fullness morphing more and more into almost blinding pleasure with every passing moment. Mycroft had found his prostate immediately and used the bulbous head of his penis to nudge it a little, chuckling at the embarrassingly uncontrolled sounds it pressed out of his boyfriend. Greg wanted to call him names for laughing but he kept it to himself. It's not as if it didn't feel amazing. 

 

There was no slow build, just suddenly Mycroft slamming into him repeatedly, using the hand he'd employed to guide himself into Greg on his shoulder to keep him from inching forward. The one on his hip crept up to mirror the action then slid up into his hair for a possessive tug. The entire thing was so incredibly intense, he swore he would lose his mind if it went on for much longer. He could  _almost_  come, just needed a tiny bit more of something else. He thought if perhaps Mycroft stroked him a bit he'd get off in a minute, but he was loathe to ask. If all else failed, he'd take care of himself in the shower after-

 

All complex thought fled when Mycroft snatched him upright, spun him around to face him, then shoved him onto his back. The slight pain of his arms pinned beneath him served to ground him for a moment and he gripped the edge of the desk as Mycroft demonstrated, once again, his alarming strength and wrapped Greg's legs around that narrow waist. He pushed an arm around Greg's waist, effectively bearing the brunt of their weight as he pushed back in and resumed fucking with the same level of exuberance. Greg's surprise was demonstrated by the loss of his tentative vocal control. 

 

"Look at me!" Mycroft ordered, having to raise his voice over the cacophony of Greg's pleasure. The man did his best, quieting immediately but unable to open his eyes more than half way. Mycroft mercifully slowed and stayed away from his prostate for a moment. "Do you want to come, Greg?" That alone almost did it, prostate or no.

 

"Y-yes. Yes, sir. Please, Mister Holmes." Mycroft smiled wickedly, taking hold of Greg's waggling, rigid cock and gave it two quick tugs to every twisting grind into his hole. It took six tugs. Three pumps and Greg was shouting again, spurting nearly up to his chin. As he did so, Mycroft rushed to his own completion emptying himself into Greg a mere five strokes later. He lapped at the trail of Greg's milky ejaculate as his hips still jerked a little and marked the olive-skin several times before he was spent.

 

Mycroft pulled out wetly, tugged Greg to his unsteady feet and turned him around again, putting him back into his original position bent over the desk. He untied and unwound the restraints, briefly massaging Greg's shoulders and forearms then unexpectedly gave his bum a punctuating slap. 

 

"I'll see you upstairs, Gregory," he said, as if they'd just concluded a business transaction and Greg wasn't bent over his desk naked and still panting with come dripping down his thigh from his arse. For all the effort it took to put himself to rights, he may as well have just been in a strenuous meeting. He only had to do up his trousers and run a hand through his hair. The sheen of sweat on his brow and his missing tie the only indication of something amiss.

 

"Your tie, Myc," he frowned, picking up the obviously ruined length of fabric after finally getting up enough strength to stand upright.

 

"Oh that's not the one I wore the other night," he said, comforting the non-verbal expression of Greg's disappointment. He turned and walked out of the office, calling behind him. "That one I'm keeping in pristine condition."  

 

 

 

***

He played it safe in the morning, not touching Mycroft anywhere near as much as he wanted to, not asking what last night was all about, and, that night, asking specifics about what Mycroft did and did not want so he didn't get it wrong. That was, until the man nearly shouted at him that he didn't even know himself.

 

"Apologies, my love," Mycroft said sincerely, pulling a very frustrated and slightly affronted Lestrade to him for a little kiss before immediately releasing him. "Even about yesterday. I hope I didn't hurt you." Greg's back and shoulders had only twinged a little and he'd had a bit of minor trouble sitting at work but was otherwise unharmed, the soreness serving to remind him of the fantastic shag and so making him grin every time. Sherlock had been appalled.

 

"Nah. Last night was actually quite brilliant." Greg risked procuring another kiss. This one was only slightly less distracted.

 

"I just... Yesterday and today have been non-stop extremely difficult decision-making throughout. I didn't mean to take it out on you-"

 

"I totally get it," Greg said soothingly, having followed him to the closest of the house's several receiving areas. "It's fine. What do you usually do when it gets like this?" Mycroft sighed, sliding his hands roughly down his face, pulling at the flesh of it as if he could no longer stand to wear it.

 

"I don't know. Music sometimes helps. Some of that scotch on the mantle there... I just... I just don't want to make anymore decisions for the next few hours." Greg, who had squatted at Mycroft's right knee nodded determinedly. He'd only done this twice before, a long while back. But the person had responded well. The only reason they never found each other again was because the person that had brought him into the exclusive club fell out with the owners. It took Greg years to realize that the reason they didn't return to that particular place was that she'd been too jealous for it and caused some sort of scene he hadn't witnessed.

 

"You need to turn your brain off for a few hours or so," Greg stated, procuring permission. The look Mycroft gave him was solid.

 

"Yes," he said quietly, but it may as well have been a shout for all of the naked hope in it. Greg shot to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. He was pretty good at being in charge, if he did say so himself.

 

"Right, then. Upstairs." He'd never seen Mycroft...  _scramble_  before, but that's exactly what the man did, nearly tripping up the stairs as Greg followed, pointedly measuring his pace. Mycroft held the door for him and locked it when they'd both entered the immaculate master bedroom. Greg pointed to one of the many chairs in the room. "Move that chair in there facing the bath and turn the taps on. Hot as you can stand it."

 

"Yes," Mycroft said, moving to do as he was told yet pausing at Greg's raised eyebrows. "Yes,  _sir_ ," he corrected himself. Greg smiled indulgently at him and nodded for him to continue. When Greg was comfortably enthroned, water running noisily and steaming, he assumed the sprawling position of a king expecting to be entertained. His legs, still bulkily muscled from years of football were almost rigid with anticipation though he kept his feet flat on the floor and his knees far apart as he slouched in the chair, chest out, arms draped lazily over the rests as he regarded his pet.

 

"Take off your clothes. Slowly. Make sure and hang each item up on that hook." Greg figured he'd take as much decision making away as possible whilst making sure all of Mycroft's peripheral needs are looked after as well. So far, so good, though, because when Mycroft got down to his shirtsleeves, Greg ordered, "Look at me." Mycroft's lovely eyes held his, but there was little defiance in them. Any resistance was being forced to the background and Greg felt it in the pit of his stomach. 

 

A fully nude Mycroft Holmes was a sight to behold, every long line, every mark starkly visible in the bright light of the bathroom vanity made Greg's mouth water. He would indulge in a bit. He licked his lips, slowly, specifically to express the effect Mycroft was having on him in a way other than the obvious mountain in his trousers.

 

"On your knees," Greg commanded gently. Mycroft complied, lowering his eyes. "I didn't say to stop looking at me." Back in their rightful place, Greg could see, even from a few feet away that the amount of blue visible around his pupils was almost negligible. "Come here." Greg pointed to the area between the vee of his legs and Mycroft began a slow, undulating, cat-like crawl to the designated spot. "God, look at you," Greg couldn't help but gasp a little. "You only want a collar with a little bell on it. Well... I guess this will have to do." Greg unbuckled his belt and slid it easily free of the loops. "Bend your head a bit."

 

Greg looped the belt about Mycroft's alluring neck, finding the right fit and extracting a small tool from his pocket to bore a little hole there through which to poke the prong. He wrapped the leather about his fist once and gave it an experimental tug. It looked tight but Mycroft didn't gag. Thinking about the possibility that Mycroft may have a very controlled, if any gag reflex, his cock got impossibly harder and he made the simultaneous decision to ask. This was a feat in and of itself as coherent thought had temporarily fled at the notion.

 

"Can you breathe properly?" Greg was careful with his words, making sure to maintain the power of decision at a safe level.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Right. Look at me." Greg bent himself almost entirely in half to procure a lingering kiss. "You are delicious." With a last peck, he leaned back again. "Take my cock and bollocks out." Mycroft jumped to comply but was halted by Greg's next words. "Slowly. And don't suck it yet. Just hold it." Mycroft expertly executed his commands, maintaining expectant eye contact with the heavy lidded expression of Greg's face. He wanted nothing more than to shove his cock into Mycroft's face until he found relief, but this... this steadily building anticipation was exquisite. Mycroft began licking his lips repeatedly and, at one point, as Greg deliberately made himself pulse in that soft, polished hand, pushing out streams of pre-ejaculate, Mycroft's breathing grew heavier until he was actually  _whimpering_.

 

Greg took a little pity on him, instructing him to clean the path of a single stream of the fluid that had run down and over his hand. That ended up breaking Greg more than Mycroft because then he sharply told him to stop.

 

"When I tell you to, suck my cock properly," Greg gulped. "I want it all the way down your throat until your chin is touching my balls. Do you understand?"

 

"Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The timid tone of voice Mycroft was affecting did extra things to Greg's libido. 

 

"Now." Mycroft basically threw his face over the steely shaft with abandon, taking him balls deep in one go and sucking as if his life depended on it. Greg had to stop him, yanking on the belt with his left hand and roughly grabbing his chin with his right, the sight of Mycroft's swollen lips, saliva covering the entire bottom half of his face to the point of dripping as he panted, his eyes half shut and glazed was nearly enough to set Greg off anyway. 

 

"Oh my God." Greg knew that one of the things Mycroft was attracted to about him was that he was a bit rough around the edges. Despite his ability to behave properly in all situations, posh was something that didn't come naturally to him. He used this aspect to their mutual gratification now, lowering his voice to a near growl that properly displayed how very turned on he was. "You filthy little cock-sucker. Look at you! That's bloody gorgeous, that." They were both literally gagging for it. He released Mycroft's chin and stroked his hair, mussing it by carding through it before grabbing a handful and tugging hard enough to be just this side of pain. "If you make me come now I won't fuck you later."

 

"No, sir. Please-"

 

"Oh you know what you want now?" Mycroft was silent, eyes flicking wildly between Greg's and the room entire, unable to figure out how to properly answer. Greg nodded, thinking that he had perhaps flipped some sort of switch in that massive brain of his just as his beloved had wanted. They weren't even half finished yet, however. The need expressed was for "hours" and, in truth, it had only been about fifteen minutes. "Keep your mouth open," he dictated before dragging his tongue all over Mycroft's lips and chin, dipping in to capture his tongue a couple of times. He tasted his saliva and elements of himself and he caught several glimpses of Mycroft's length, jutting up and out, nearly purple and leaking copiously. There was a need to make sure everything else was sorted before he went too far and took Mycroft too quickly. "Get properly clean and ready then come downstairs. I'll leave your things on the bed.

 

His "things" turned out to be the shirt Greg wore to work that day that wasn't particularly dirty, but he figured Mycroft would appreciate the intimacy of being surrounded by a day's worth of his scent, plain white cotton pants, the impromptu belt collar, from which he was released when Greg left the bathroom, and a plug Greg had found among a frankly alarming selection of things that were to be inserted into orifices. Greg checked that the fridge was stocked with water and juice after laying everything out, then went down to warm up their dinner, some chicken thing the cook had done before being dismissed early for the night.  

 

With five minutes to spare, Mycroft made his way down the stairs, Greg hearing the slight slide of his house shoes on the changing terrain of rug and wood. The taller man was only a bit more stiff than usual, cock still mostly hard. Greg served them and they sat across from each other, eating and conversing about the day that had brought them to this extreme. Greg asked him all the right questions, careful to avoid specifics or Mycroft having to even think a little bit about what to reveal. They talked amiably, the makeshift leash may as well have been another of Mycroft's ties for the attention paid to it and the rest of his attire. The only difference in conversation was that Greg didn't talk of his own experiences that day and Mycroft continued to call him "Sir."

 

That and, making sure there was nothing in his mouth, Greg would press a switch on a little remote that would set the toy inside Mycroft buzzing slightly against his prostate. The first time it happened, Mycroft nearly choked anyway on his own saliva. He had to have known its capabilities but was unsure as to when his partner would employ it but for working out he would probably be food and drink free. Greg speculated that he did it on purpose, just made sure his mouth was empty at any given point then would just give him a look, the one that said he was ready. 

 

Meal consumed, Greg beckoned his pet for a lovely snog in his lap, punctuated with the vibrations of the toy which he himself could feel through his trousers. With a final lick up his tasty throat, he lead him upstairs, ordering him to strip his master. He was rewarded with the permission to touch a little extra, which he took full advantage of, keeping Greg's nipples sharply peaked and his cock full and throbbing. The kiss that followed was nothing less than obscene, both men making hungry noises until Mycroft's were abruptly cut off by the clink of metal. His eyes flitted uneasily down to his already bound wrist but he said not a word. He'd literally asked for it and Greg wasn't about to disappoint him.

 

Greg looped the cuff chain around the rectangular wrought iron vine decoration within the mostly wooden head board then brought up Mycroft's other wrist to lock it in place as well. He only unbuttoned his shirt, reveling in Mycroft's own scent mingling with his. He started out with lingering kisses to his torso, tiny nips and sucks as he lay between Mycroft's thighs, holding him securely around his waist and allowing those legs to wrap themselves around him. There were little teasing jerks of vibration at first. Then Greg began getting generous with his mouth, flicking his tongue over each of Mycroft's sensitive nipples, giving them deep sucks combined with swirling his tongue over them until he was positively whining and helplessly rutting up against Greg's own severe erection. The toy was vibrating continuously now and it was all Greg could do not to let Mycroft have too much friction.

 

"I'm going to fuck you just like this," he promised. Mycroft could no longer form coherent words, only these deep, pleading moans and high pitched whines whenever Greg's nipple ministrations hit a certain level of intensity that sent shockwaves straight to Greg's groin. He was convinced he could have ridden them out to his own completion without being touched. "But not yet." He couldn't help but enjoy the disappointment that coloured the sounds now. Instead he kissed down the flat belly, tongue diving into his navel, then just kissed up and down the length of Mycroft's heavily leaking cock as he very carefully removed the toy. He spent a moment, admiring the gaping hole as it contracted then reached up, telling Mycroft, "Get these fingers nice and wet." Mycroft gave in immediately, laving Greg's digits until they were fairly dripping, mouth still going even after they were removed, similar to his rather stretched opening. Greg started in on the manual manipulation of Greg's nipples. He marveled at the spasms of his lover's entrance in time with what he was doing basically at the other end of his body. "You said you could come from just this," Greg said. "I want to see that." 

 

Mycroft had been so worked up it only took a minute. Literally only sixty seconds of Greg pinching and rolling and a light tonguing of the under side of his glans, fully exposed in his ardour. His orgasm from this sort of stimulation didn't shoot as much, mostly dribbling forcefully onto Mycroft's stomach, yet it seemed no less intense than any other as the man panted out residual moans, sweat nearly dripping, hair in stringy, coiled shambles. Greg ran his tongue up Mycroft's torso, through the rapidly cooling pool of come, spreading it upward until he reached the area on his neck just below where his collars sat, sinking his teeth and cock into him at the same time. Three strokes punctuated by his own voice, distant to his ears "Oh", "Fuck", and "Yes" and he was himself spurting inside the still rather tight heat of his lover. As he mouthed repeatedly at the stark, purpling mark he'd made, he decided to say exactly what he'd been thinking.

 

"This is by far my favourite look on you." Mycroft still said nothing, gazing blissfully into the distance. He honestly looked delirious, kind of like that one time Greg had found Sherlock on heroin "for a case" years ago before his second stint in rehab. Others may have found it disconcertingly out of place for Mycroft's face to be so devoid of its dry emotional mask, but to Greg, besides his kids, it was his greatest achievement to date. He actually thought the most he could do was quiet that rushing mind of Mycroft's a little; just slow it a bit. But  _this_...  _this_  was a Mycroft Holmes completely off line.

 

Trying his best not to disturb him too much, he fetched the cuff keys and released his lover, undoing the belt, pulling off the shirt, rubbing his strained arms, and wiping him down thoroughly with several warmed moist towelettes pulled from their container. He stripped the soiled coverlet from beneath Mycroft, at one point getting an arm under him and carefully lifting his hips to get it from under his much exerted backside. Greg then found his stash of paracetamol and a retrieved a bottle of water, unsure as to whether Mycroft would even take it on his own. He put the pills in Mycroft's mouth and, to his relief, Mycroft swallowed them down with water from the bottle Greg put to his lips.

 

Mycroft suddenly wrapped himself around him, clinging and sighing several times in a row. Greg took what he was given, reveled in it even, but was still a bit concerned. Of course he didn't really know what to expect from Mycroft Holmes In Love in the first place so he supposed it wasn't out of place unless Mycroft said it was. When the man did say it, however, it wasn't the negative reaction expected to go along with it.

 

"That... No one has ever..." Mycroft's words were muffled against Greg's chest, his breath a bit tickly as it disturbed the black and silver hairs there.

 

"Hey. Alright?" He looked down but Mycroft didn't move.

 

"I've been distracted and even slowed a little," he said, sighing again. "But I have never in my entire life been so completely severed from my thoughts. It was complete peace. I now know why my brother's an addict." Finally he moved his head to look into Greg's eyes and there were actual tears. They wouldn't dare fall of course but they were there all the same. "You have my deepest gratitude, Gregory. You understand me and help me in ways you will never truly know." Greg had no idea what to say to any of it, so he simply kissed Mycroft to sleep.

  

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'aaaw babies! And the kids are awful cute too.

Sunday dawned unusually clear. Greg wasn't sure if colours actually had more pop or he'd just never actually seen them properly until now. There was of course that he was effectively a fifteen year old girl thing because this was ridiculous. He knew it was a bit creepy watching a grown man sleep but he couldn't help it. A slumbering Mycroft Holmes was a rare sight. He was usually up before Greg and asleep after him so every opportunity was indulged. Mycroft asleep was an extremely close second to the result of their little session with the handcuffs. There was no mask, no front, no conscious behaviour. Quite literally.

 

When a shaft of sunlight moved across his face and those eyes, azure this time, flipped open, blinking themselves into focus in a manner not incomparable to a sleepy kitten, Greg fell on him with soft kisses. He kept his mouth firmly closed and tried not to breathe out too much as he was sure the state of his breath was a bit dire. Mycroft seemed to have no such issue, reaching up and back behind Greg's neck to gently guide their lips together properly. His tongue politely requested entrance and, though reluctant, Greg granted it. When the edge had been taken off, Mycroft thoughtfully ran his nose along Greg's and sighed.

 

"What's on your mind, Myc? Or would you have to kill me if you tell me?" he questioned softly into the comfortable weight of the quiet morning air. The joke earned him its usual derisive look, softened dramatically by the drowsiness still present.

 

"I may have to kill you if you tell that joke one more time," Mycroft grumbled, voice and hair all sleep mussed. The guise earned him another volley of kisses.

 

"You say that every time."

 

"I mean it every time."

 

"So this is effectively Heaven then? Explains a lot." Mycroft rolled his eyes but the action was completely negated by his initiating another round of sleepy kisses.

 

"We should marry," he said abruptly. Greg froze, scanning his beloved's face and bedroom for an idea on an appropriate reaction. I know this is all going rather quickly but-"

 

"Not really. It's actually been rather a long time in the making."

 

"True. I just thought you'd be reluctant because of your past."

 

"Well, first off," he kissed Mycroft's almost stubbly cheek(what the hell did he shave with?), "You are so far away from Margaret as far as... well...  _everything_  it's not even funny."

 

"I find it quite amusing."

 

" _You're_  quite amusing," he countered absently, laying a series of kisses over Mycroft's right ear and the skin below it that made him hum. "And second, we've effectively reverted back to when we were good friends, she and I. Give or take a bit of awkwardness now and again."

 

"Mm," Mycroft mused. Sharp blue eyes flicked to meet glittering brown as they hovered over his face a moment. Greg had moved his top half over Mycroft's, their bared chests still sleep warmed. "This isn't the actual proposal. I just want you to decide if it's something you'd like to do in the future. With me."

 

"There's no one else. There couldn't be," Greg said with a painful amount of truth. If for any reason this didn't work out, Greg knew he would basically become a whiskey-fueled machine that would break down on the job one day, his body found by some squirrely rookie. How he'd managed to breathe properly before there was Mycroft he had no idea. He  _did_  know, however, that Margaret Lestrade could go straight to Hell and take the thousand and one romantic dramas she'd forced him to watch with her. 

 

"Of course not. That's why I'm mentioning it." Which was Holmes for  _I feel exactly the same way but I need a script and time to prepare to say anything remotely sentimental aloud_. Or a good shag. A good shag usually got Mycroft high enough to express his feelings unhindered. He was kissed thoroughly for his trouble.

 

"You know," Greg ruminated, "I may not be up to par with you mind-wise-"

 

"Gregory," Mycroft warned.

 

"No no, hear me out. It's just a fact. No one I've ever known of  _is_. Except for perhaps that Stephen Hawking bloke..."

 

"He's a rather effective Chess player but he cheats dreadfully at cards." Greg paused a moment to reflect on that casual statement, staring down at the man around whom he was building his new world. Well, it wouldn't be boring.

 

"Right. Anyway I was going to astound you with my conclusion that you're terrified about meeting my kids." Greg expected posturing and vehement denial.

 

"Of  _course_  I'm terrified!" Mycroft sat up so quickly they nearly knocked heads. "They are the one thing that could effectively take you from me." Greg opened his mouth, wanting badly to offer some comfort but the truth was so very solid that it blocked all other thought for a moment. "I refuse to win their initial affection through gifts as I feel it sets a certain tone most that gain parental status in this way make the grand mistake of setting. In the same instance, I want them to have the best because they are a part of you, Gregory. Even if we weren't together or will be together no longer after this."

 

"Hey. Hey hey, Myc it's alright." Greg put his arm around the stiff shoulders, sorry that he'd disturbed the contemplative comfort of the morning already. He had been a bit nervous but that went with the territory of getting into new situations. This blind panic, especially in  _Mycroft_  was daunting. "These things take time to work out normally," he offered lamely, but it was the truth. "The worst that could happen is that they'd need time to get used to you."

 

"That isn't the worst that can happen, Gregory and we both know it."

 

"I  _do_  know it. I know my kids, unlike many parents. I see it all the time and promise myself anew every time I see it that I won't be one of those parents that has no idea about how their kids work, nor would I allow anyone else I let into their lives be like that." The words were just coming out now, with little thought other than to get them out. "Look at me, Mycroft." Just the use of his full first name was enough to get him to raise miserable eyes to Greg's face. Greg slid a comforting hand beneath the covers and stroked Mycroft's thigh. "I chose to be with you with the children in mind."

 

"I do have accounts with-"

 

"Not the bloody money! Of course not the money. That never came into play. Their benefit would be the same as mine. Just in a different capacity." His hand brushed the area of Mycroft that represented one of capacities in which the children would never know him, but Greg kept well away after that in order to get his point across. "They'd get to be around you. Learn things. Teach you things. Because it may be a close thing, but you don't know everything, Mycroft Holmes." The look Mycroft was giving him now was one that Greg didn't care for. Not because it denoted any displeasure with him or anything, it just meant that he was struggling with emotions, calculating reactions. He had to mask it, not show what he thought of as weakness. Greg understood, but he didn't like it one bit. It was a look for the office, for bureaucrats and business meetings and the Queen. It wasn't for home and was especially staunchly out of place in their bed.

 

Greg waited patiently, rubbing his back and taking advantage of how attuned they were by breathing deeply in a relaxing manner. He listened way more closely than Mycroft would have had to and was pleased to find his partner's breaths slowing to match his. A moment later, he ran his hand up to hook onto Mycroft's freckled shoulder and gently guide him once more onto his back. The kisses began slowly, just lingering presses of lips to flesh. Greg moved to his mouth and was gently responded to. They deepened and became deliciously fervent despite their pace. They cradled one another's faces, tracing bone structure with thumbs, stroking shorter hairs with fingertips. But when Greg's hand ventured South to begin circling Mycroft's nipple with slight pressure, the latter man snatched himself away, nearly leaping from the bed but settling for sitting on the side. Greg was undeterred, scooting up to his back and slipping his arms around him to nip at his neck, tasting the salty tang of clean sweat and, very slightly, his body soap.

 

"You haven't got any meetings today," Greg said.

 

"I do hope you're joking." Greg did pause at that to give him an almost incredulous  look. "I've got the most important meeting of all today." Greg tried his best to feel rejected. He attempted hurt, then tried again to be upset, but none of it worked in the face of the blatant, damn near irrational  _love_  dumped into him from out of nowhere until he was full to bursting with it. He laid back, trying to go as slowly as possible so it didn't look like a tantrum. "Unfair," Mycroft said seemingly out of nowhere. Greg just smiled at his back.

 

"What's unfair?" he asked innocently. Mycroft looked to his right but not all the way over his shoulder.

 

"At least wait until I'm out of the room before masturbating because I rejected your advances." Greg shut his eyes, continuing to stroke slowly beneath the sheet.

 

"The rule is, no sex with  _you_  before scheduled important meetings. I have to do  _some_ thing to alleviate the pressure." He forced his eyes open to exactly what he expected, Mycroft craning over his shoulder this time and staring at the crotch level movement. "Besides, it seems a rubbish rule when you always get sort of a brain reboot after. I would think it'd help." Greg's voice was emerging a bit breathy and Mycroft licked his lips. Greg knew he had a point and wasn't actually pushing the issue, everyone had their little quirks and rituals and this was one of Mycroft's. It was, however, great fun to take the piss. He'd never get tired of watching that seemingly impenetrable facade fall slowly apart, especially if he was the one doing it. "It's really difficult to ignore," he breathed, "when you look like that. I mean do you see how  _hard_  this thing is?" He shoved down the covers without slowing his self-pleasure to revel in the naked  _want_  in every aspect of Mycroft's demeanor. The man actually licked his lips.

 

"Fine, but if it doesn't go well, on your head be it." Mycroft sighed, taking his time to make his way back onto the bed properly as if his arm was being twisted. 

 

"I'm sure it'll be fine, love." Mycroft covered his body with his own, skipping right to filthy kisses and perfectly pressured grinding that made Greg scrabble at his back with blunt nails.

 

"How about a compromise?" Mycroft gasped, coming up for air. 

 

"What'd you have in mind?" Nothing more than huffed curses and grunts were said after that as Mycroft fellated him with a precision that completely contrasted the wanton inhibition of the last time. He managed to make it embarrassingly quick and the explanation of it somehow hot enough for Greg to nearly be ready again during their tandem shower. It was a combination of being washed by his love, no matter how quick or efficiently, seeing him completely naked in the uninterrupted light of the immense washroom, and the magnificent erection he refused to let Greg sort out as part of the compromise.

 

"Stop it," Mycroft said in a blase manner, stepping out first and beginning the drying process. Greg followed, almost automatically doing the same.

 

"Stop what?"

 

"Looking at me in that manner."

 

" _In which_  manner was I looking at you," Greg teased. Mycroft looked anything but amused.

 

"Like a hungry puppy being prevented from his bone-oh good Lord!" Greg's laughter followed him from the room.

 

When Greg entered the kitchen in his football kit, he smirked at the colour that rose in Mycroft's cheeks and how it closely matched that of his dressing gown.

 

"If it weren't for your hair colour," Mycroft said, attempting to keep his tone nonchalant as he extracted a couple of eggs from the refrigerator, "You'd look like a teen-ager." Greg leaned back on the counter, crossing his arms and giving Mycroft just enough room to work.

 

"Perhaps I'll dig out my old leathers and motorbike and take you for a spin this Summer. I'm pretty sure they'll still fit. May be a bit tight, though." It was punctuated with the sound of an egg cracking on the pristine white floors. Greg grinned and fetched the paper towels and cleaning spray. He let Mycroft be for a few minutes, waiting for him to compose himself enough to speak again.

 

"You'll need to discuss the strong possibility of our marriage with the children."

 

"Yeah. Yeah alright. When I get 'em back here we'll-"

 

"It would be better if you introduced them to the concept."

 

"Wh-what? Why?" Mycroft remained silent, aggressively whipping the egg mixture then pouring it into the heated pan. "Alright," Greg conceded carefully wrapping his arms around his poor despondent love. "I'll do as you like. Just know this," he gave the curve of Mycroft's jaw a sweet kiss then leaned his forehead against the spot. "They won't have a choice on whether or not they love you."

 

"You did."

 

"I chose to  _be with_ you," he corrected, spinning Mycroft around to face him. "Loving you was completely out of my hands." Once again his cheesy yet completely inadvertent declarations earned him sultry kisses and a half-hearted protest about the meal being prepared. He was proud of himself for continuing to honour Mycroft's sex rule, changed that day to a compromising "No orgasms for Mycroft before important meetings." No matter how much he loved witnessing it and how badly Mycroft seemed to need it going by the returned protrusion. Instead of teasing him further, he made the toast and poured the juice and, a few minutes later, with the counter safely between them, Greg felt more comfortable asking. "Anything else I need to know? To... you know... keep you happy?"

 

"You know the basics. As you said, the details can be worked out later, though you've done a stellar job already." They exchanged smiles just this side of lewd at the memories evoked and continued eating in comfortable silence. Greg took their dishes to the sink to rinse and stick in the almost industrial sized dishwasher. He thought twice then washed them manually as it would be a gross overuse of resources to employ the massive thing for two peoples' worth of washing up. It took only minutes before he was drying his hands and heading toward the front door. Mycroft fussed over him, helping him on with his coat himself and brushing it off with sharp flicks until Greg grabbed his hand.

 

"It'll be fine, Myc. Stop worrying so much." Mycroft could get his disdainful mask to fit properly as well as Greg could help sucking his teeth in adoration, which was he couldn't. Greg shoved his arms around his waist and pressed their bodies together in order for Mycroft to feel his kiss throughout. "They're people. Just... smaller. I'm sure you could read them like you do anyone else. Probably better as children put everything out there more. I mean, you probably know almost everything I'm thinking right now from the way I blink."

 

"The way you look at me," Mycroft said with as much truth as he could muster.

 

"And... what is my look telling you now?" Greg's voice dropped to a murmur that seemed to make Mycroft almost instantly hard again.

 

"It's telling me that if you don't leave immediately, not only will you be late, but I will have completely compromised my integrity by taking you back to bed." With a giddy chuckle shared with another kiss, Greg released him, carefully checking his pockets for everything he needed.

 

"Oh don't forget the-"

 

"Yes, Gregory."

 

"You didn't even know what I was going to-"

 

"I did, Gregory."

 

"Not sure if I like-"

 

"You do, Gregory."

 

"Shut-up."

 

"Shutting up, Gregory."

 

A final kiss saw him off.

 

 

 

***

"Of course they don't have their things together yet," Margaret complained tossing dark waves from in front of pale eyes. They weren't anywhere near the brilliance of Mycroft's but he remembered them being among the loveliest he'd ever seen.

 

"S'alright. I'm a bit early and it gives me a chance to... can we, uh, talk?" 

 

"Of course. Coffee?" She raised a deep blue mug to indicate the beverage of which she spoke.

 

"Yeah, coffee'd be great." He followed her through to the kitchen where little Sophie was ensconced in her high chair, working on a sippy cup of milk. Margaret got down a cup that matched the one from which she drank, fixing his how he liked it with a splash of cream and two sugars as he responded to Sophie calling him with pure delight by pulling the child out, and kissing her cheek soundly. He took his drink with his free hand and had a satisfying sip as he attempted to figure out how to break the relationship to Margaret. She knew of his sexual preferences long before they'd even started seeing each other.

 

"Look," she said, breaking the quiet, "Mycroft told me about you and him days ago." What?

 

"Did he?" With mild surprise, Greg lifted his head from where he had his nose buried in chocolate curls that retained the vestiges of that baby smell.

 

"Yeah. He said it was much easier that way. That way I could properly prepare the children for the situation." They'd already had a frank talk with the older two, including in everyday conversation that some people wanted the opposite sex, some the same sex, some both and that it was all fine. He wasn't sure about his relief that it was mostly already sorted

 

"Well, there's a bit more to it now."

 

"Not too sure about that. We agreed that, in light of the length of your prior acquaintance," that sounded just like phrasing he would use, "the subject of marriage would probably come up rather quickly. He was very specific as to how I was to give you no trouble about it." Greg grinned in spite of himself and took a longer sip of his coffee. Mycroft was mad and he was mad for Mycroft. "I was to tell them you were together but nothing about the possibility of marriage." 

 

"Well," he cleared his throat and drained his mug as he heard sweet bickering and rushed footsteps, "I can probably knock that out on the way. Heya Magpie! Jackie boy!" For once, Jack spoke first, a full back pack slung over the thin shoulder of a nine year old book worm.

 

"Papa! Is it true? Is Sherlock Holmes's brother really your boyfriend now?" The boy was, in a word, unfortunately obsessed. That was two words but his reverence couldn't be contained in just one anyway. He'd even insisted on growing his hair out and damn if it didn't look extremely similar as, like Sophie, he'd inherited his mother's curls. Perhaps it was a key to how Greg handled the man himself so well.

 

"Yeah, Papa! Will we get to meet Doctor Watson?" The girl was no better, the only one to inherit the Lestrade bone straight hair. It was all they could do to get her to hold off on bleaching it blonde and shearing it to military precision for at least another eight years when she turned eighteen. For now it was in two stiff braids under a cap bearing the football team's colours in a camouflage pattern of red, white, and a bit of gold.

 

"Yeah Papa," added Sophie before getting back to her cup and fiddling with her little left ear, content with having contributed.

 

"Get your things and we'll talk about it in the car. Quick like a bunny!" Greg began to herd everyone toward the sitting room where he saw their normal red case earlier.

 

"The ones at Baskerville glow in the dark," Jack mentioned. Greg had to roll his eyes secretly.

 

"I need to get high level security clearance to get in there," Maggie explained for the hundredth time. I could guard it and Jack could clone people."

 

"Maybe," said Jack, opening the front door. "I kind of just want access to their facilities-"

 

"Aren't you two forgetting something?" Greg almost grinned as two sets of dark eyes very similar to his mother's blinked cluelessly up at him for a moment.

 

"Oh! Bye Mum!" Maggie was kissed and then her brother.

 

"Bye Mum!" 

 

"Bye Mum!" came Sophie's little voice as she received her kiss.

 

"You all behave for your Papa," Margaret warned.

 

"They usually do," Greg nodded. "Thanks for the coffee and the, uh..."

 

"Yeah," Margaret winked. "Good luck." 

 

It took a full five minutes into the ride before he could put the correct words together. They seemed inadequate for presenting to the children how important all of this was to him. Finally, he decided, the direct approach was the best thing.

 

"Mycroft and I are thinking about getting married. What do you all think?" After an eternity of the only sound being the muffled rushing of air past the moving vehicle in which they rode and the low hum of tyre on tarmac, Greg caught an exchanged look between the older siblings in the rearview. Jack went back to his novel and Maggie pensively asked, 

 

"What do we call him?"

 

"What?"

 

"We'll call him Father," Jack stated without looking up. "Those posh types enjoy that formal stuff."

 

"Oi!" Greg had a tiny panic attack as he was for the first time, genuinely unsure about what would happen. He was calmed by the memory that Mycroft had already taken care of the hard part. He would have to sneak in a quick handy or blow as soon as possible after the initial meeting. Mycroft deserved that and so much more but he would give what he could, when he could.

 

The children stood wide-eyed in the foyer as McDonald took their coats and luggage with a curt yet welcoming greeting. Mycroft descended the stairs, dressed impeccably as usual. Only Greg could tell from the slight twitch in his jaw that it was clenched with nerves. Poor guy. Greg gave him his most reassuring grin, about to make the introductions when Jack began marching straight for Mycroft. His older sister followed him, poised to keep him out of trouble if she could. She had always been good about that regardless of whatever state their relationship at the time.

 

Jack stuck out his right hand stiffly as Greg stepped up close behind them, Sophie sitting in the crook of his arm.

 

"I'm Jack Lestrade. This is my older sister, Maggie and my younger sister Sophie. We approve of and are honoured to blend our families." Mycroft gave Greg the cutest puzzled look then grasped the offered hand and gave it a few pumps during the dramatic speech.

 

"I've desired nothing more than your approval and am honoured to have it," Mycroft replied smoothly, despite his slight confusion. He went into full gentleman mode, lightly taking Maggie's hand and briefly pressing his lips to the back of it. She giggled deliciously before Sophie reached for Mycroft and shifted her weight in a way that, if Greg wasn't alert would have caused her to tumble from his arms.

 

"Fodder!" she cried. "Fodder!" Greg's eyes went wide, his heart leaping in his chest in anticipation of Mycroft's response. It was as he thought, Mycroft awkwardly taking the child who clutched his tie with a little hand and leaned her head on his shoulder. Greg swore he would cry and turned his head, clearing his throat.

 

"This way, children," said Mycroft in a strangely quiet voice. "I'll show you to your rooms."

 

"We have our own rooms? I had to share with Jack before and now Sophie," cried Maggie. They moved toward the stairs and up them.

 

"I wish for you to see this place as another home," Mycroft explained, going carefully with Sophie in his arms. Greg couldn't blame him. It had been over thirty-odd years since Mycroft had been regularly exposed to a toddler. Well, a chronological one, anyway. He remembered the first of his own mates to have one and how much worse the unwarranted fear was when it was your own, despite any training you may have received through relatives and friends. "Now, you may have your rooms redone however you choose, but I have taken the liberty of the initial decor based on your parents' descriptions."

 

"Fodder," Sophie sighed. Greg just watched as Mycroft basically fit right in with very little effort. For all his worrying he accepted exuberant embraces like a pro and described all of their rooms to them before opening the first door. 

 

"Wait, when was all this done?" Greg queried as Maggie bounced around awaiting the portal to her sanctuary opened.

 

"Oh, I have my ways," said Mycroft mysteriously.

 

That he did. Each room was a near perfect reflection of each child, Maggie's a combination of a princess's delicacy and rugged durability, Jack's an aspiring scientist's wet dream. The closets were full of clothes and each had their own private bath. The older kids were left to settle in before the pre-game activities whilst Mycroft showed Greg the nursery, attached to their own bedroom with two doors in succession at each end of a short hallway.

 

"When Sophie is of age she will of course get a room according to her developed tastes-" Mycroft was cut off by a sound kiss that attempted to hide the few ecstatic tears of one Greg Lestrade.

 

"You gorgeous,  _gorgeous_  man," Greg murmured between kisses, plucking his youngest from his love's arms and placing her in the crib and only pausing to watch that she didn't get upset. She watched them back a moment before sitting and turning her attention to a stuffed rabbit that made a rattling noise. He tugged Mycroft through the adjoining doors, frantically clawing at his suit buttons as the dark-haired man scrambled to shut the doors and press some sort of button on the wall next to it. "Meeting's over, "Greg declared, pushing him against the wall and taking his mouth repeatedly as he worked Mycroft's trousers until they pooled around his ankles. With a double nipple tweak that made Mycroft cry out exquisitely despite his obvious struggle to keep himself quiet with the baby in the next room, Greg mouthed his way onto his knees, encouraged by Mycroft's inability to get any further than his name. Greg swallowed the man's rigid prick down, nearly gagging in his eagerness. 

 

It was quick work to taste the fruit of his efforts. On both ends, because there was no way Greg could resist a few quick tugs of his own cock that had him coming almost as hard, almost as fast, for the second time that morning as Mycroft slowly softened on his tongue. A stray drop of his beloved's emissions made its languid way down his chin to fall on his top.

 

"Oh my God, Gregory," Mycroft panted sliding carefully down the wall onto his backside. Greg just noticed the soft sounds of a rabbit being played with. He looked up to see a small intercom panel on the wall. He swiped at his chin with the back of his hand and licked it clean thoughtfully as Mycroft stared.

 

"Oh crap. I got some of you on my shirt."

 

"I'm pretty sure I'm currently sitting in yours," Mycroft said with a rather high pitched giggled which they then shared. "No matter. Time to change anyway."

 

"What? Change into what?"

 

If Mycroft didn't stop, he wasn't going to be able to move for all the orgasms Greg planned on giving him in a row. There were professional grade uniforms in home and away colours from which to choose for both of them. The idea of Mycroft Holmes in shorts was novel, almost humourous in light of his usual attire. The reality of it was something else altogether, something that would have definitely ended in another go but for the children's presence. Greg had to almost physically throw himself back into the nursery. 

 

As he checked then changed her nappy, vowing to start toilet training as soon as possible, a little pink dress with pleats bearing, in large lettering, the crest of their team on the bodice appeared in Mycroft's hands, suspended by a tiny, quilted pink hanger.

 

McDonald had done as instructed, having already lead the older children into the viewing room where Maggie chattered excitedly about her brand new official Manchester uniform top she vowed she'd sleep in and Jack, with his nose buried in the book he brought as usual sported a simple tee shirt proclaiming the team's name. Upon closer inspection, Greg saw that it was a football fact and strategy guide. A game they weren't really interested in was on and, to Greg's eternal surprise, the boy was following it rapturously, only taking his eyes off the screen to look something up or scribble down a note in a book specifically for the purpose also bearing the team's colours and name.

 

"That's great, you two. But aren't you forgetting something?" The looks were identical to the ones he received when he'd said the same before leaving their house. 

 

"Thank you, Father!" Maggie burst out with and clamped her arms about Mycroft's waist.

 

"Yes thank you, Father!" Jack was preoccupied with his study but spared Mycroft a wide grin that Greg was later told was exactly his and nigh irresistible. Sophie, who had been placed on somewhat steady feet to explore when they entered, rushed back to clutch Mycroft's leg with a single arm. Brother was doing something interesting with his pen, twirling it among his fingers thoughtfully.

 

"Dank you, Fodder!" She then went to try what Jack was doing with a spare pencil. Mycroft barely escaped carnal assault yet again as Greg forced himself to the kitchen in order to get the feast ready.

 

"Perhaps you shouldn't be in here for a bit," Greg warned when his boyfriend strode into the kitchen ten minutes later. "I'm trying my best to get rid of this." He turned briefly to show Mycroft the issue he was having with the front of his shorts bulging a bit too prominently. Those bright eyes sliding down to his bare toes and back up didn't help matters in the least.

 

"I... was politely ordered to check on the provisions as they are, and I quote, 'starved half to death' and could I procure, 'some crisps or something'." Greg was unable to restrain from at least a little kiss, though the mistake he made was obvious as soon as their lips touched. Mycroft made the most endearing of undignified squeaks when pushed up onto a worktop, head and neck nearly ravaged. "Gregory, my love-" he managed to push out. "The children-will be-expecting..." One last extended kiss and Mycroft was reluctantly pushing on Greg's chest with both hands a bit more forcefully. "I also need to finish what I began saying earlier regarding the children's future." Mycroft was employing the tried and true method of discussing the kids in depth to waylay inopportune arousal.

 

"Sorry, Myc," Greg apologised sincerely, adjusting himself and retrieving a bowl with which to hold the flaming cheese puffs to tide them over until the hand-breaded chicken chunks baked sufficiently. "I just... you make me feel like a bloody teen-ager."

 

"Same here, my dear. But I must discuss with you-"

 

"Mycroft, I don't want your money."

 

"But you'll have it all the same. Whether or not I passed the scrutiny of your children, you'd have it." Greg sighed as he set up a tray with several dipping dishes in which he ladled various sauces." He felt Mycroft's eyes following his every movement. Greg was thinking of how to counter and came up with nothing. "I have four separate accounts set up-"

 

"What,  _four_?! Why even one?"

 

"One for each child when he or she comes of age, and one for practical expenses. I'd given myself another year in which to begin a relationship with you and, if nothing developed, planned on granting your children fabricated scholarships and rewards-"

 

"Oh my God, Mycroft, that's too much." 

 

"Never. No matter how this turns out with us, I want for them what you do, to have better, no matter the source as long as it's honourable. I do my level best to be honourable, Gregory, regardless of some of the dishonourable actions I may have to take from time to time." Greg looked up thoughtfully from the work top which he had to grab to hold himself up. It had always been a huge blow to a his ego to do anything approaching asking for help. To have that and so much more freely showered on him was odd, made him feel strangely about it. He knew the work he'd have to put in to make sure of their educations but here was Mycroft, basically handing it to him with no expectation. The prospect was further proven by the fact that apparently the chance for highly advanced opportunities was handled separately from their romantic relationship. It was the single reason he wasn't skeptical. Greg's decision had to be made based on logic and putting his children's well-being in front of his pride.

 

"I... I'll need to think on it a bit."

 

"Understood, my love." Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg's olive cheek and leaned his forehead on the spot.

 

"Papa's snogging Fodder?" came the little voice, complete with the correct curious inflection despite the fact that the child had no idea what snogging was.

 

"I believe they've sent out a reconnaissance party," Mycroft announced lightly, perfectly pronouncing the French in a way that he shouldn't if they were to get anything else done that day. Only remembering that their official holiday began the next day helped Greg keep it together until they joined the children who had rechristened the area The Family Room for a rather spirited game.

 

Mycroft took great pleasure in pointing out the tactics Greg had suggested to the owner. Jack vowed that when they returned from their Holiday, he would need his dad to practice with him which plastered an irremovable grin to said dad's face. Maggie insisted on high-fiving Mycroft at every opportunity regardless of how heavy handed she tended to be. His hand was almost numb by the end.

 

They rounded their game-day feast out with some sort of greens and there was a scramble for baths, Maggie making good on her intention to sleep in her jersey. Somehow, story time had made it's way to their bed, Maggie reading aloud no less than three chapters of the third installment of the Harry Potter series before Greg snuck the two older children out of the room in order to not disturb a peacefully resting Mycroft with an equally deeply sleeping Sophie on his chest.

 

For Jack, he had only to take the cords to some of the more important electronics, check the usual places for a hastily stored torch for reading after hours, and kiss his tousled head. Maggie required debriefing. 

 

"Father's nice."

 

"Yeah he is at that."

 

"It seems like he has the kind of job where sometimes he isn't allowed to be very nice even to other grown ups." Her insight sometimes flipped his heart in a not entirely unpleasant way. He busied himself helping her arrange the covers under her chin before sitting and stroking her hair.

 

"That he does."

 

"But it's a secret. His job, I mean."

 

"Most of the time."

 

"I bet if James Bond was real, Father'd be his boss." Greg couldn't help his laughter at an elevated version of his own thinking. "And he's dead clever. He got  _Jack_  to actually watch the match!"

 

"He's much cleverer than I, I'm afraid."

 

"Don't say that about yourself, Papa. There are different kinds of clever. Father just happens to be the get-Jack-into-football kind."

 

"That's supposed to be my job," Greg said almost to himself. Maggie turned onto her side and draped an arm over her father's thigh, pushing her forehead into it with a content sigh.

 

"If you're both supposed to be our parents along with Mum then it's all of your jobs," she said wisely, though slightly muffled. "You laid the foundation. He told me so." And that was that. It was so simple. Navigating the trappings of parental sensibilities wasn't so easy, but the idea that they were already working as a unit was remarkable. The thought occupied him long enough to notice his firstborn had dropped off and he gingerly removed himself from her loose embrace with a kiss to her hand. He remembered the very first time he kissed her hand, so very tiny it had been as it had trouble circling just one of his fingers. Now she would be eleven this Summer and Greg greatly needed to stop crying. Really. This was ridiculous. 

 

The sight of Mycroft laying Sophie gently in her crib did nothing to help his engorged emotional state. He lead his partner into their bedroom through the adjoining doors and paused after closing both to receive a brief lesson in how to work the intercom system. There was apparently one for most of the substantial number of rooms in the house. Mycroft was nothing if not patient with important things, waiting until they had showered and donned proper pajamas, having discussed that their bags were already packed for their trip and were leaving straight after dropping Sophie at day care.

 

"Maggie won't want to leave her mates," Greg said, after they came down from a volley of slow kisses. The wildfire of earlier had diminished to a simmer in light of the day's emotional strain. As positive as it was, it was still exhausting.

 

"Understandable. She seems quite the social butterfly."

 

"That she is. I have my memory tested hourly keeping up with who did what to who and why and whether or not they're still friends because of it." He made a slightly exasperated sound and pulled Mycroft closer.

 

"I'll have to learn the inner workings of her social circle sometime, I suspect," Mycroft said, sighing with more peace than agitation over the task to which he'd promised himself.

 

"Good luck with that. Jack, however... he's not a pariah or anything, but he prefers to just do his thing. He'd welcome the opportunity to not have to be distracted by things like his sisters or his parents. I think he'd do well."

 

"I sense a 'but'," Mycroft encouraged. Greg smirked devilishly and gave a nice squeeze to his favourite. Feeling Mycroft's smile through the satin was reassuring and more than a bit arousing.

 

"The whole... boarding thing."

 

"Yes. His absence will weigh heavily."

 

"I mean he doesn't even stay with me but I feel better knowing he's...  _home_ , you know?" Mycroft hummed his hum of deep thinking.

 

"Would you feel better if he made his home here? Along with Maggie of course."

 

"I don't know, Myc. It might break their mother's heart."

 

"Or give her room to breathe," he suggested gently. "By no means do I suggest this arrangement lightly. Please understand that I hold no ill will toward the mother of your children, past the mess she made of your separate romantic relationship, of course. I honestly don't see how she could..." Mycroft stopped himself and took a deep breath. Greg couldn't believe the level of emotion present in this supposed 'Ice Man'. He kissed the top of his curled head, knowing it was a shoddy way of showing his appreciation of it. "I believe she has nothing but the greatest love for the children and, at least when it comes to their welfare, will deny nothing that's best for them. Hence your unfettered access and understanding of your fluid work schedule as far as they are concerned."

 

"Yeah couldn't ask for more in that department," Greg agreed, running his finger tips along Mycroft's arm and delighting in the slight responding tremor.

 

"Sophie is far too young to be without her mother for too many long stretches. Jack is of an age where he will start pulling away from her ministrations and seek further those of his own peer group and sex."

 

"Boys do need a good father figure. How fortunate he has two." Again the deliciousness of Mycroft's smile against him.

 

"Maggie already demonstrates a high capacity for reason and will be able to make a logical decision as to where she chooses to live and for how long as long as it is made clear to her that she won't be hurting anyone's feelings."

 

"Won't she have to switch schools if she moves here?"

 

"Not at all."

 

"Hurting feelings?"

 

"Yes. It is my understanding, from the interactions I've had with Margaret Lestrade, that she would be amenable to the girl residing somewhere else as long as it goes along with the child's wishes. Especially if you're present."

 

"That's what I was worried about."

 

"You needn't. As long as Maggie has all the information available to make her own decision, there won't be a problem over where she chooses to remain, for Jack either." It was Greg's turn to hum.

 

"And Sophie?"

 

"We'll extract her from that sub-standard care facility," Mycroft almost spat.

 

"It's not that bad."

 

"Just because she's a toddler, it doesn't mean her education shouldn't be tended to just as diligently."

 

"That's just it. She's only two."

 

"And your child. Therefore much more capable and not to be subjected to the pandering to those of lower intelligence."

 

"Come here." There were several deep kisses at Mycroft's fierce protectiveness, but the discussion as a whole, served to moderate their desire until it was concluded.

 

"A phone call could have her in the playgroups of some very important people. Or I could appoint a live-in Nanny if Margaret is amenable."

 

"She'd probably like that."

 

"And a housekeeper."

 

"Alright that sounded a lot like a cheap shot." The diabolical grin was irresistible, however, and the punishment was slow and sensual, executed through the slippery fabric of the sleeping attire Mycroft insisted they don as a result of the children's presence.

 

Sophie was a little daunted, waking in the night in a strange place. Greg, tuned to his baby's cry, sat up to retrieve her but the hand of a still rather wide awake Mycroft stayed him. He did his best but she communicated in no uncertain terms, "No, Fodder! Papa!" Greg's heart broke a little, noting the minuscule pause in Mycroft's hushing.

 

"Just bring her in here, Myc," he called through the open doors. "I warned you it would take some time, no matter how well this first day went," he soothed as the child reached for him then stopped crying the instant she was in his arms, laying her ruffled head on him and already blinking slowly. Mycroft nodded, his expression a mask of 'obviously' hiding the natural if illogical response of a heart aching with the rejection. Greg knew Mycroft thrived on information and this was the sort of thing they didn't put in child development books for new parents. "It's normal," he said as Mycroft arranged himself sitting up with the blankets over his lap about to take up a book in the closest approximation of pouting in which he would allow himself to engage. "When they were infants, sometimes they wanted nothing at all to do with me and I knew it was what you'd call a biological imperative or whatever but it didn't take away the sting. I knew they weren't doing it on purpose but it felt a little like they were." Mycroft just nodded, marked his page and put his book aside to slide to nearly his original position.

Sophie, whose eyes had closed completely, opened them for a final assessment. She reached out a chubby hand and grabbed the collar of Mycroft's pyjama top with a final sigh of, "Fodder," before dropping off completely.


End file.
